


Judgement Day

by Carpenoctemily



Series: Second Chances [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Comic Book Science, Crossover, Developing Friendships, Disability, Explicit Language, Fake Science, Gen, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Medical Inaccuracies, Memory Loss, Memory Related, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Past Torture, Past Violence, Physical Disability, Psychological Trauma, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester with Superpowers, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sam Winchester's Terrible Life, Sam Winchester-centric, Scientific Inaccuracies, Supernatural Elements, Superpowers, The Winchesters and The Law, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:53:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 121,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carpenoctemily/pseuds/Carpenoctemily
Summary: The hardest part of becoming a hero is keeping people from mistaking you for a villain. Darkside was able to dodge that bullet thanks to his role in the Demon's defeat, but Sam Winchester's reputation isn't nearly as stellar as his alter ego's—and unfortunately for him, innocent until proven guilty doesn't really apply to back-from-the-dead mass murderers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, everyone!
> 
> This book is going to be a bit more complicated than the last, by virtue of the ever-expanding cast—namely, the Avengers. So, before we get started with the story, I'd like to explain a few things.
> 
> The most important thing to note is the timeline. This story stays mostly in line with Marvel canon up until Civil War, at which point it diverges somewhat. The origin of the Darkside story and series came from my vision of Sam Winchester meeting the Avengers, and in order to do that, I needed the Avengers to remain together and cordial. So, while the events of Civil War still took place—namely, the fight at the airport and the revelation about Tony's parents' deaths—everyone made up at the end and still lives and works together.
> 
> The events of Spider-Man: Homecoming and Black Panther remained intact, but the events of Thor: Ragnarok and Avengers: Infinity War never took place in this universe, or at least have yet to take place at the point in time when this story takes place (for reference, the first chapter of Judgement Day takes place in September of 2018, a little over four months after Escaping the Dark Side ends).
> 
> Most of the rest of what I've changed will eventually be explained or at least mentioned within the story itself or future ones, but if you ever have any questions about my version of the MCU, feel free to leave a comment and I'll explain my thinking.
> 
> Thanks for dealing with my housekeeping, and without further ado, let's get on with the show!

The sound of skin hitting skin and bone hitting bone echoes down a stone-paved alleyway as two men stumble apart, one clutching his fist and the other cupping his jaw. They stare at each other in stark disbelief, neither one quite believing that a punch was actually thrown.

"Is 'at all you 'ot?" The man with the broken jaw—it must be broken, there's no way it isn't broken—taunts with a sneer and his attacker raises his fist once more, landing another blow to the man's face. This time, his face snaps to the side as his nose gives way. A sinister smile finds its way to the attacker's face as he deals another blow, and another, and another, breaking skin and snapping bones as he fights the demons in his mind. The other man's grunts dissolve into groans dissolve into nothing at all, but the attacker just keeps pushing, just keeps channeling his anger and his despair and his fear through his fists.

Before long, the short instances of relief that come from each contact with the broken man's body are overshadowed by the pain of raw, bleeding knuckles and bruised fingers—but the punches don't stop, don't even slow. And even after the man has been beaten until he's unrecognizable beneath the blood and the bruises, his attacker is only stopped by a single word, shouted from above.

"Darkside!"

* * *

 

The day that it all ends—or begins, depending on how you look at it—starts off just like any other.

Sam Winchester wakes up on the roof of an apartment building in Harlem—he's still living on the streets while the weather is nice, although Matt has insisted that he spend the upcoming winter nights at the lawyer's apartment—and turns on his phone to check the time and the latest news. The first article on the Bulletin's website is a description of Darkside's takedown of a mob boss late last night, and Sam finds himself skimming through it as he opens and eats a granola bar despite the fact that he already knows exactly what happened.

Crime still abounds in the city—and according to Jessica, a new big bad is gearing up to try his hand at domination—but the number of criminals running around is significantly lower than it was during the Demon's reign of terror, and Sam has yet to encounter anyone of the same caliber as the black-eyed villain who is still in SHIELD custody. Thanks to his role in the Demon's fall from power, Darkside has become a respected hero of Manhattan, and Sam has finally managed to find the right balance between being trusted by the city and feared by the city's wrongdoers.

And even outside of his nighttime activities—which, thanks to the lack of available online courses over the summer, have started to bleed into the daytime hours as well—Sam has found that he's significantly happier. For the first time in years, he's gotten used to having good days with relative consistency.

It's only on the days when he's reminded of what he's left behind that Sam's good mood falters.

Sam hasn't found himself missing much—he's perfectly happy without a house, since he's never consistently had one anyway, and even the bunker was meant to be temporary—but there's one thing that he knows he'll never be able to live without, and that's his brother.

Dean's trial began five days after Sam's birthday and has made the news every day since as every public mistake he's ever made is dragged before the world to be examined by a judge and jury who only see the elder Winchester brother as a terrorist who murdered 53 people—52 innocent residents of Lebanon, Kansas and his own little brother. Forced to the sidelines by his supposed death, Sam has been keeping a close eye on the trial as it progressed, ignoring the pain that twists his heart every time he opens an article to find his brother's broken eyes staring back at him. The trial has been going on for four and a half months now, and Sam knows that it will have to end soon, but he wishes it could last forever—both so that Dean is never convicted and so that Sam can continue to see his face in the news.

As prepared as he is for the inevitability, Sam never really expects it to happen. He leaves his guard down, leaves himself completely and utterly unprotected against the darkness that lurks just around the corner.

And so in the end, it only takes a headline.

When Sam returns to the same rooftop of the same apartment building in Harlem eight hours after he wakes, he plugs his dead phone into his laptop and opens the computer, scanning the constantly updating newsfeed on his screen. Three articles down the page, the world comes to a stop around Sam as he reads the combination of words that he knew would one day appear and hopes nonetheless are wrong.

After he forces himself to read through the article—it can't be true but it is, it really happened and Sam did nothing to stop it—Sam finds his eyes returning to that headline, fixated on the innocent statement that causes him so much pain.

The words jump out of the screen as Sam continues to stare, burning straight through his eyes and into his mind and leaving a permanent impression on his soul. He stares at them until his eyes water, willing them to change, to say anything else; when they do finally change, it's only to blur into nothing and eventually disappear entirely, gone into darkness. By then, it's far too late—the words are permanently etched into Sam's mind, a simple phrase that will haunt him forever.

Desperate for a distraction, Sam ties his mask over his mouth and heads into the city, searching for a productive outlet for his eclectic mix of bottled up emotions—more are piling up by the second and Sam knows that if he doesn't let them out soon, he'll explode.

A faraway scream pulls Sam to the warehouse district of Hell's Kitchen, to a concrete alley where Sam finds himself watching as a man shoves a young woman against the wall. Sam yells for the man to stop but nothing happens, nothing changes. He yells again but the man doesn't acknowledge his warning—neither of the alley's occupants even acknowledge him at all. Sam reaches out, yellow eyes flashing, and his hand passes straight through the man as his form dissolves into smoke. The woman follows suit and the two formless figures evaporate into mist, blending into the fog of the night. Sam stands frozen with his arm still outstretched, recognizing that his mind is playing tricks on him but refusing to recall the origin of this particular hallucination.

It's been over seven months now since Sam arrived in Hell's kitchen, over seven months since he discovered a small part of himself that was truly good—a part that, though tainted, could be used to help others, to make Sam better. Now, that piece of Sam feels more real, purer than the rest, and it's in that form that Sam prefers to spend most of his time.

Sam began his journey in New York believing that Darkside would be temporary, but he feels differently now. Now, Sam is the one who is temporary, a false skin for Darkside to occupy.

The sound of a gun firing sends Sam back to the rooftops and he's halfway to its origin before the thought crosses his mind that this may not be real, either, that his mind may still be deceiving him. He almost turns around, almost heads to Matt's apartment and waits for his emotions to sort themselves out. If nothing else, Sam could underestimate his strength and hurt someone he doesn't mean to.

A second spray of gunfire makes Sam's decision for him and he teleports across Hell's Kitchen, chasing down the fading sound as a young woman's screams chase him.

It's surprisingly easy for Sam to find the source of the gunfire, a heavily tattooed man holding an AR-15 and waving it threateningly in the direction of a terrified teenage boy. Sam almost jumps into the alley where the two stand but he stops himself at the last second, unable to bring himself to intervene only to watch as the pair of men dissolve into the air before his eyes.

"What are you doing?" The boy asks as Sam observes from above, his voice small but his tone even.

"My job." The tattooed man replies, waving the gun carelessly and smirking when the boy flinches back, obviously terrified. "You stole something from us, and my job is to punish you for doing it."

"W-What?" The boy stutters, eyes wide. "I didn't steal anything from you!"

"You stole one of my best men." The tattooed man says, and the boy's face pales.

"Y-You mean Derrick?" He asks, somehow going even whiter when the man nods. "I ju-just wanted to get... to get him help!" The boy exclaims, shaking hard when the tattooed man levels the gun at his chest.

"You got Derrick arrested." The man says, and a strange pressure begins to build in Sam's chest. "You called the police and then stood by and did nothing while they arrested your own damn  _brother_." The man stalks closer and the boy whimpers, backing up and flinching when he hits the wall of the stone-paved alleyway. "Derrick did nothing wrong by you and you sent him away in handcuffs."

"He needed to get away from you!" The boy yells, summoning adrenaline-fueled bravery and staring up at the man. "You were ruining him! I was trying to save him!"

"You didn't save him." The man says as Sam swallows hard, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. "You stood by and watched as they tossed your brother in prison and threw away the key." The man releases the safety on the gun and the boy freezes, staring at the weapon with a mix of terror and guilt in his eyes. Sam spots the sparkle of a few tears as they trickle down the boy's cheek and something inside of him snaps, sending him down into the alley before he can stop himself, before he can convince himself that he's not in his right mind. Sam disarms the man with a wave of his hand, sending the AR-15 flying into a dumpster as he lands in a crouch, yellow eyes flashing. The boy takes one look at Sam's glowing eyes and bolts, disappearing into the night, but Sam doesn't pay him any mind—the boy isn't the issue here—turning instead to the tattooed man, who is glaring at Sam with his arms crossed.

"What was that for?" The man asks, sounding irritated and not the least bit nervous. For some reason, his tone rubs Sam the wrong way and Sam ignores the question, growling menacingly in response. "I was just reprimanding that boy for letting his brother get arrested. I wasn't gonna hurt him." Sam stiffens subconsciously, biting the inside of his cheek as the man's earlier words return to the forefront of his mind, intertwining themselves with the headline that never left. The feelings of before—the feelings Sam was trying to dispel in the first place—begin to grow stronger and Sam's eyes flare as he starts to lose his tenuous grip on his abilities and his emotions.

The man just smirks, shaking his head and stepping away from Sam. "You know what? This isn't worth it." He says in a conversational tone as he backpedals toward the street. "That boy's brother deserved to go to prison anyway."

Sam's vision brightens so quickly that he's nearly blinded by the strength of the man's soul—the bright, overwhelming white of a pure human soul that a man like this doesn't deserve to have. His grip on his anger lost, Sam strikes out, punching the man in the jaw and stumbling backward in disbelief, his eyes focused on his split knuckles as the tattooed man groans, cupping his obviously broken jaw. The two stare at each other for a minute, Sam and the man, both of their eyes wide in disbelief. Sam didn't mean to punch him, certainly didn't mean to break his jaw, and yet for just a second, he forgot the words that burned themselves into his mind.

The man smirks, spitting some blood out of his mouth and looking up at Sam.

"Is 'at all you 'ot?" The man challenges, his voice garbled but his words clear. Sam's eyes flash and he raises his fist again, sending another punch that snaps the man's nose and drops him against the wall. Something akin to a smile finds its way to Sam's face as he deals blow after blow, striking every inch of the man's body that he can as the man grunts and groans and eventually passes out. The man slumps against the wall but Sam just growls, remembering the man's words to the boy and channeling his rage into his fists as he pummels the man's torso.

"Darkside!" A voice yells from the rooftops and Sam ignores it, dealing another punch to the man's right shoulder and feeling it shift under his knuckles. "Darkside, stand down!" A hand grabs onto Sam's shoulder, spinning him around and forcing him to drop the tattooed man to the dirty floor of the alley. Sam stares at the newcomer, stares at the red eyes and stubble of a man he knows, a man who knows him, and the yellow fades from his vision as he realizes what he's done. Sam stumbles away from Daredevil, turning to the man lying to his left with a strong feeling of dread building at the base of his spine.

The man's shirt is soaked in blood and his face is battered and bruised beyond recognition. At least one of his arms is broken and, if the cracked wall behind him is any indication, so is his head. A wave of guilt washes over Sam and he takes another step back, staring in disbelief at the damage he inflicted on the man.

Sam's steps away are apparently enough evidence of his return to sanity for Daredevil because soon the horned vigilante is standing between Sam and his victim, his mouth twisted into a sharp expression of disapproval.

"What happened, Darkside?" Daredevil asks darkly, angling his head to one side as Sam blinks, turning the world yellow once again. The man's body is still glowing, although Sam notes distantly that it's not nearly as bright as it was before.

"Not here," Sam says quietly and Daredevil nods, pulling his phone out of his suit. Sam spends the duration of the call focusing on calming his breathing, hoping to avoid a round of sensory overload—as worked up as he is, it's a miracle he hasn't fallen into an attack already. By the time Daredevil hangs up on the 911 operator, Sam has managed to get both his breathing and his heart rate back under control—although, with the man's words still ringing in his ears, Sam doubts that the calm will last.

"You want to talk?" Daredevil asks, pointing up at the roof where Sam first watched the man yell at the boy. When Sam simply nods, unable to vocalize his agreement, the horned vigilante heads over to the fire escape, scaling it up to the roof. After a moment, Sam closes his eyes and teleports up to join Daredevil, sinking down against a wall, pulling his mask down around his neck, and putting his head in his hands.

"Sam?" Matt's lighter, kinder voice asks and Sam looks up to see the blind man pulling off his cowl and offering Sam a sympathetic smile.

"I'm sorry," Sam says as sincerely as he can. "I just... did you see the news today?"

"Karen told me," Matt says softly. "Dean Winchester has been found guilty of 53 counts of first-degree murder and sentenced to life without chance of parole. I'm sorry, Sam."

"Not your fault," Sam replies automatically, shaking his head and pulling his knees up to his chest. "It's just that... any other time, I would have gotten Dean out of there long before he had a chance to stand trial. But now, even with new superhuman abilities, I'm powerless to help him."

"Dean won't have to spend the rest of his life in prison," Matt says confidently, crouching down beside Sam. "We're going to find a way to prove his innocence—and yours. And then you'll both be free."

"Should I really be free?" Sam questions, eyes shifting away from Matt and toward the edge of the rooftop closest to the alley where they left the tattoed man. Sam knows that Matt called for an ambulance but he has yet to hear any sirens, and so he knows that the man is still lying there, unconscious and unrecognizable. "That man down there, I hurt him. I seriously hurt him. I wasn't thinking. I was angry about Dean and he was yelling at this kid for getting his brother thrown in jail and I just snapped. Just... let my emotions get the best of me."

"You're hurting, Sam," Matt says. "It's completely understandable."

"I'll never be able to see Dean again," Sam says, shaking his head. He knows that Matt is trying to help him, but the truth is still the truth, and nothing is going to change that. "Not without getting myself arrested, too." And there's the catch-22. Sam could very easily see Dean again, could easily see him every day for the rest of his life, if he just walked into a police station and turned himself in. Sam could see his brother again, but he'd lose his own life as a result.

And losing the friends Sam has found here, the life that he's built here is something that he can't bear to do.

"You'll see your brother again," Matt says, climbing back to his feet. "I swear it. One day you'll get to see your brother face-to-face. I'll make sure that it happens." Sam smiles weakly. He appreciates the sentiment, but he and Matt both know that the situation is out of the lawyer's control. Matt's concern does, however, brighten Sam's mood considerably.

"Thanks, Matt," Sam says and the horned vigilante smiles, offering a hand. Sam takes it and pulls himself to his feet, returning the smile weakly.

"Any time, Sam," Matt says, hesitating. "Do you want to crash at my apartment tonight? It would be better than being alone." Once again, Sam appreciates Matt's worry, but being alone is what he really wants right now.

"I'm fine, Matt, but thanks," Sam says apologetically. Matt sighs, pulling on his cowl and taking a step back.

"Take care of yourself, Darkside." Daredevil says with a grin, pulling his billy club out of its holster and heading for the edge of the roof. Sam pulls up his mask and watches as Daredevil disappears over the edge of the roof and runs across the next one over, heading in the direction of his apartment building. Sam simply teleports back to the apartment complex in Harlem, grabbing his duffel bag and returning to his original location. Sam dumps his bag against the wall and listens for the sirens that would signal the arrival of the ambulance Daredevil called for earlier.

While he doesn't hear any sirens, he does hear the soft whistle of a bullet headed straight for him.

Sam lifts his hand and ducks, shielding his face and chest with the arm that isn't hopefully in the process of stopping the projectile—upon reflection, it sounded too heavy to be a bullet. The sound stops abruptly and Sam looks up, staring in surprise at the arrow hanging in mid-air about two feet from his head. It's then that Sam realizes that the arrow was never intended to hit him, but rather was aimed at the wall about a foot to his right. Sam pulls the arrow out of the air and turns, looking up just in time to catch a glimpse of a brunet figure holding a bow before the stranger disappears over the edge of the roof of the next building.

Sam looks back down at the arrow, frowning. New York is a weird city full of weird people, but Sam isn't aware of any villains who use a bow and arrow—although he does know of at least one hero. Sam examines the silver arrowhead more closely and discovers a small capsule built into the body of the arrow at the base of the head. As he moves his fingers carefully along the cartridge, Sam's finger catches on a small latch and the container pops open, dropping a small roll of white paper into Sam's palm. He tucks the arrow under one arm, unrolling the paper and reading the small message inside—and wondering when exactly the citizens of Manhattan decided that cell phones were overrated.

Sam's internal jabs at the strange—and potentially dangerous—delivery are expelled from his mind the instant he actually reads and processes the message itself.

_Darkside,_

_You've done a good job in Hell's Kitchen these past few months. The Avengers and I would like to give you our thanks personally. Come to the Tower at 9 tomorrow night for dinner. Mask on or off, doesn't matter._

_-TS_


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as the sun disappears behind the skyscrapers, casting long shadows across the island of Manhattan, Sam takes to the streets.

He's been buzzing with nervous energy since he received the Avengers' message last night, unable to keep the neatly-printed words out of his mind. When Sam started his career as a New York City vigilante, he was expecting at least some amount of attention from the big superheroes on the block—after all, keeping an eye on superhumans is kind of in their job description—but hoped that after proving himself as an ally rather than a threat, the Avengers and their friends would leave him be. No such luck, of course. Instead, Darkside had to find himself in the middle of a fight with a supervillain where the stakes were the entire island of Manhattan, and now, thanks to the media, he's a household name—and garnering more attention of both the positive and negative variety than he expected or needed.

With his name and glowing yellow eyes plastered everywhere from newspapers to TV screens, Sam should have known that the Avengers would develop an increased interest in New York's newest vigilante. He figures that being invited for dinner is a rite of passage, an invitation to join the ranks of the heroes who the world unanimously sees as good, rather than those it seems inclined to hate. Being seen with the Avengers would easily put the last, straggling rumors about Darkside's evil intentions to rest, placing him firmly in the good graces of the general public. It's exactly the kind of break that Sam needs.

And yet he still finds himself hesitant to accept the invitation.

It's another catch-22 that Sam was desperate to avoid, the particular paradoxical situation that has been hounding him ever since he first put on a mask. If Sam truly wants to gain the public's trust, he has to be prepared to put himself out into the world, and the first step in that journey is getting on the good side of the Avengers. But becoming a public figurehead is exactly what Sam was trying to avoid the very first time he tied a black scarf around his face in a dark alleyway—Darkside is being hailed as a hero, sure, but Sam Winchester is anything but. Sam Winchester is a terrorist, accused of killing 52 people in Lebanon, Kansas, last year, and no amount of heroism will save him if he's ever discovered to still be alive. Darkside needs this meeting with the Avengers, but Sam Winchester needs to stay as far away as possible.

The two halves of Sam's life are irrevocably tied together, unable to coexist and unable to endure alone. It's a paradox and it's an impossible choice: for Darkside to live, Sam Winchester must die—but without Sam Winchester, Darkside can't survive.

Stuck with no clear answer to a vaguely defined question, Sam has spent his day feeling trapped, locked away in the shadows and unable to stop the energy buzzing in his veins. Darkside is a vigilante of the night, and so Sam Winchester spends his days alone, watching the sun rise and fall from the roof of whatever building Sam has made his home at a particular time. But once the sun goes down, plunging the world into the harsh lights of the bustling city, Darkside is free to take flight. Hoping to find an answer in the chaos of Manhattan, Sam wastes no time jumping into the streets, his mask secured over his face and his yellow eyes shining brightly.

Sam stops two muggings and a bar fight and rescues a cat from a tree before an hour has passed, and it's while he's following a particularly surly-looking man down a side street that he runs into Daredevil, who is crouched on a rooftop a few blocks away from his apartment building.

Sam tracks the surly man for a few more seconds and joins his fellow vigilante on the rooftop only after the stranger has disappeared into an apartment complex across the street, his intentions apparently not as malicious as Sam originally believed.

"Daredevil," Sam says in greeting and the normally hyperaware vigilante startles, visibly surprised. Sam crosses the rooftop in a few large strides and frowns at the layer of red plastic covering Matt's eyes, trying to decipher the expression hidden beneath—the man Sam considers a friend is almost never surprised by anything, on account of his heightened senses, and when he is, he doesn't show it. "You alright?" Sam asks cautiously, raising his hands in a placating gesture when the horned vigilante looks up at him, tilting his head to one side.

"Darkside." Daredevil says after a minute, acknowledging Sam with a nod. "Sorry, I was just thinking about something." The vigilante's words take on a much lighter tone as Daredevil transitions into Matt—the man prefers to keep the two facets of his identity separate in both his life and his mind, and Sam has begun to do the same—his apology ending in the voice Sam associates with the blind lawyer rather than his heroic alter ego. Sam smiles and takes a seat on the concrete ledge, watching silently as Matt turns his ear back to the city, scanning for threats. Once he's done, Matt leaves his crouch and sits down beside Sam, and Sam relaxes, allowing the yellow to fade from his eyes and from his vision. If Matt didn't hear anything suspicious in the area, then there isn't anything suspicious in the area. "What's up?" Matt asks after a minute, angling his head in Sam's direction.

"After we split up last night, I was visited somewhat indirectly by Hawkeye," Sam explains, biting the inside of his cheek. Tying the invitation and its unique delivery to the bow-wielding Avenger wasn't difficult, and after a moment of consideration Sam ended up leaving the arrow stuck in the wall it was aimed for so that Hawkeye could retrieve it when Sam left. After he woke up, Sam's first stop was the rooftop, and he was unsurprised to find the arrow gone—although whether the archer waited for Darkside to leave, thereby seeing Sam's reaction to the letter, or retrieved his ammunition later that night, Sam doesn't know.

"What happened?" Matt asks curiously, his back straightening automatically as he offers Sam his full attention.

"I received a letter from the Avengers, stuck to an arrow," Sam explains. "It was an invitation to dinner, tonight, at Avengers Tower." Matt's uncovered mouth twists into an expression of thoughtfulness and Sam assumes the rest of his face does the same. After a minute, the horned vigilante reaches into one of the many well-hidden pockets that cover his suit, pulling out a folded slip of paper and handing it to Sam.

"I was also visited by an Avenger last night," Matt admits, scratching his chin. "The Black Widow was waiting for me in an alley when I arrived to stop a drug trade. She had already disabled and restrained the offenders, and once I made my presence known she said that she'd called the police and handed me this." He nods to the note in Sam's hand, which Sam begins to unfold. "She waited until I opened it to leave, most likely assuming that I had read and understood whatever is on it. I still have no clue what it says, but I couldn't exactly tell the Black Widow that." Sam nods, humming in understanding as he skims through the note. He's unsurprised to find that the wording is almost identical to his own letter. It's a formal invitation summoning Daredevil to the same dinner as Darkside.

"It's the same invitation that I got," Sam says for Matt's benefit. "Dinner at Avengers Tower at nine tonight, masks optional."

"Are we going?" Matt asks and Sam raises an eyebrow.

"We?" He repeats curiously. Sam's nerves have been assuaged somewhat by the discovery that Darkside wasn't the only vigilante to be invited to Avengers Tower for dinner, but the idea of the world's greatest heroes interrogating Darkside about his abilities—or worse, his identity—still has a firm hold in Sam's mind.

"While I'd quite enjoy a description of the look on Tony Stark's face when he discovers my blindness, I don't think that I want the Avengers to know my identity quite yet," Matt explains and Sam frowns. While the issues surrounding Sam's identity are much more severe than those surrounding Matt's, Sam understands the lawyer's hesitation. After all, unlike Sam, Matt actually has close friends in the city to keep safe. "I can function quite well without giving away my disability, but I could definitely use a hand."

"There's no telling what the Avengers will throw at us." Sam agrees, taking Matt's concerns to mean that he fully intends to honor the invitation. "What if they want to play Twister?" Matt laughs at that, lips pulling up into a wide smile.

"Regardless of the circumstances, this invitation is obviously for two, even if it was delivered separately." Matt points out. "It would be bad manners for only one of us to make an appearance."

"I guess we should get going, then," Sam says, pulling out his phone and checking the time. "It's already almost nine, and Avengers Tower is on the other side of the island." The two heroes climb to their feet, turning toward the heart of Manhattan. From here, Sam can hear the ambient sounds of most of the city—sirens, car horns, and conversations that blend together into white noise that Sam fast became accustomed to constantly hearing at his back.

"You aren't going to just teleport?" Matt asks, puzzled. Sam shakes his head, curling his fingers into his palms.

"I've got some nerves to get out." He explains. "I'm hoping that the trip from here to the Tower will expel some of the energy." Sam pauses, glancing in the direction of the Tower—now that the sun has set, the dim blue glow of the Avengers 'A' is visible from across the island—and smiling to himself. "Besides, I've never been to that side of the island." He adds. On his trip around Manhattan last year, Sam chose to steer clear of the area dominated by the Avengers, assuming—correctly, it turns out—that the Demon wasn't stupid enough to rob a bank in their backyard.

"Race you?" Matt asks teasingly as he pulls his billy club out of its holster, preparing himself for the trip. Sam's smile only grows wider—he knows what Matt is doing but that doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate it—and he straightens, taking a runner's stance that Matt immediately mimics.

"You're on," Sam says, taking a deep breath. His familiar yellow filter slips down over the world and Matt grins, vaulting over the ledge and disappearing onto the next rooftop. "Hey!" Sam calls after him, earning a loud laugh in reply as Matt stops momentarily to shout something over his shoulder.

"See you at the Tower!"

* * *

 

When he lands on the rooftop directly beside Avengers Tower, Sam isn't remotely surprised to find Matt patiently waiting for him. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen is leaning against a roof-access door, arms crossed and his trademark devilish grin stretched across his face.

"Took you long enough." Matt teases and Sam huffs dramatically, adjusting his mask as he walks over to his fellow vigilante.

"I don't have a grappling hook, and besides, you cheated." Sam protests jokingly, shaking his head as Matt chuckles. Sam pulls his phone out and checks the time again, frowning. "It's 8:59, we should hurry."

"Of course," Matt says, the humor disappearing from his tone in an instant as he straightens, shoving his billy club back into its holster and heading for the fire escape. Sam is quick to follow and within thirty seconds the vigilantes are standing outside of Avengers Tower, simultaneously coming to the realization that getting to the Avengers themselves isn't going to be as easy as they thought.

The thing about Avengers Tower is that—even with its flashy name and enhanced residents—it's still the headquarters for Stark Industries. All but the uppermost floors of the building are filled with offices, meeting rooms, and research facilities, and hundreds if not thousands of people report to the Tower every weekday for work. Even at this time of night, the lobby of the building is filled with businessmen and women entering and exiting the front door and the elevator or ordering a coffee from the barista stationed in the far corner of the room. Sam is surprised to find that he recognizes quite a few of the faces in the crowd, including a few reporters, two weathermen from a local channel, a world-renowned scientist, and even one of the regulars at his usual coffee shop back in Hell's Kitchen.

Sam knew that the Tower was home to a corporation, but he didn't realize that its first floor was a popular meeting place for literally everyone living in this area of Manhattan island. How exactly the two vigilantes are supposed to get past this crowd without finding their faces plastered all over the evening news, Sam has no idea.

The answer to Sam's unasked question comes in the form of jet propulsion blasters, and Sam turns to see a red and gold figure beckoning him and Matt away from the lobby and toward the back of the building. The figure disappears around the corner and Sam nudges Matt to follow, stopping when the famous superhero does and quickly locating the unassuming door that must be their entrance.

"Iron Man," Sam says after a minute, forcing the more nerdy side of him down in favor of the calm image Darkside hopefully projects.

"Darkside. Daredevil." The Avenger replies, each word punctuated with a nod toward the vigilante he names. Tony Stark's voice is hollow and slightly robotic thanks to the mask, and Sam briefly finds himself wondering if there's a voice disguiser built into the Iron Man suit. "If I'm being honest, I wasn't sure you two were going to show."

"I'd never pass up a chance to see the inside of Avengers Tower, Mr. Stark," Sam says truthfully and Matt nods in agreement, smirking.

"Well, come on inside, then." The faceplate of the Iron Man suit lifts up, exposing the face of the famous billionaire who resides inside. "Oh, and please, call me Tony," Stark adds as an afterthought, making a sour face as he pulls his helmet all the way off and runs a metal hand through his hair. "Mr. Stark was my father." Sam nods and Stark sets his helmet down in order to remove one of his gauntlets, then scans his fingerprint on a pad beside the door. It opens almost immediately and Stark ushers the two vigilantes inside. As the billionaire picks up his helmet, tucking it under one arm, Sam looks around the small room and quickly discovers that the trio has stepped directly into an elevator.

"You have an elevator on the back of your tower?" Sam asks both out of curiosity and to inform Matt that the room may unexpectedly start moving. The doors shut after a moment and Sam tenses involuntarily, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in reaction to some strange sensation that Sam can't identify.

"I tend to fly in from the top or come in the front door, but the elevator is useful for Barton and Romanoff to come and go discreetly," Stark explains and Sam pushes his discomfort down, eyeing Matt, who appears unbothered. "Only the Avengers and a select few others have access to this elevator, and it only accesses the residential floors at the top of the Tower." Stark presses one of the elevator buttons and the room suddenly shoots upward. Sam quickly grabs the railing, as does Matt, who looks somewhat uncomfortable. "Oops, sorry," Stark says, his gleeful tone suggesting that he's anything but. "Forgot to mention that it goes pretty fast."

"Captain Rogers would like to know if you're returning soon, Sir." A male voice with a slightly robotic tone and a British accent speaks up suddenly and Sam frowns, scanning the room for speakers. Stark grins, glancing at Sam for a moment before turning his gaze toward his right wrist, where an expensive-looking watch rests.

"Tell him I've got Darkside and Daredevil with me and we're on our way up," Stark says, fidgeting with the watch as he speaks. "Oh, and J, tell everyone to expect masks."

"Right away, Sir." The voice replies and Matt tilts his head to one side for a moment before directing his attention to the corner of the room directly behind Stark. Sam follows Matt's approximate gaze and Stark follows Sam's, nodding to himself when he sees where exactly the two vigilantes are looking but making no comment.

"Sorry about that, by the way," Matt says gruffly, speaking up for the first time and drawing both Tony and Sam's eyes away from the generally unimpressive corner of the room where Sam assumes the speaker the voice came from is hidden. "We don't have the same amount of legal immunity that you do." Stark waves a hand dismissively at the comment and Sam bites back a laugh. He knows that Matt can sense the motion, but it's still amusing to watch supergenius Tony Stark gesture to a blind man.

The elevator doors open and Stark steps out into a hallway, gesturing to the wall a few feet down the hall as his suit begins to disassemble around him. "I've got to go put this away, but the communal lounge is that-a-way. I'm sure at least a few of the guys are already waiting, so make yourselves at home and I'll be back in a minute." With a final nod to the pair, Stark moves past the wall that he pointed out earlier and disappears around a corner, his suit still coming off as he walks. Sam steps out of the elevator and Matt follows suit, cocking his head to one side for a minute before smirking.

"The walls are supposed to be soundproof." He informs Sam. "They aren't."

"Maybe not for you," Sam replies, finally realizing what it is that's strange about the Tower. As soon as the elevator doors closed, the ambient city noise Sam has become so accustomed to hearing shut off entirely, replaced only by a low buzz of electricity. "I can't hear a thing."

"Well, we know that they can't hear us." Matt points out.

"But that British guy Stark was talking to in the elevator can. Whoever that was." Sam replies. The idea of someone watching his every move is unnerving, especially since Stark didn't seem particularly keen to identify the disembodied voice he referred to only as 'J'. Perhaps he's a security guy, watching from an office downstairs? A SHIELD agent? Matt shrugs, apparently not as concerned as Sam. He takes a few confident steps down the hallway before slowing to a stop once again, frowning as he turns his head to the left and the right.

"I know that Stark pointed, but the doors in this place aren't really super-senses friendly," Matt explains after a minute. Sam heads down the hallway to join him, shaking his head in disbelief.

"These doors aren't easy to find with normal senses, either." Sam comments. He can see why Matt wouldn't be able to sense the door that Stark pointed out. The door is flush with the wall, made out of the same material and only identifiable by the small, nearly invisible cracks that outline it. Sam touches the indentation with his fingers, taking a moment to marvel at how seamless the connection is between the door and the wall. Sam's hand falls to his side as he grins, allowing himself to internally freak for a minute. This place is super high-tech. If Stark hadn't pointed the door out, Sam would have thought that this was just a wall panel.

"How do we open it?" Matt asks after a minute, feeling around the edges in the same way that Sam was. "There's no knob."

"To open the door, simply push on the panel." The same male voice from earlier speaks up without warning and Sam and Matt tense in unison. Matt pulls his hand away from the edges of the door, placing his palm on the center instead. He pushes firmly and, to Sam's surprise, the door starts to move, disappearing into the wall to the right.

"Huh," Sam says, shaking his head in disbelief. This whole experience is just getting weirder by the second. "Thanks, weird disembodied British robot voice." A sentence that Sam never thought he'd hear himself say.

"His name is JARVIS." An unfamiliar voice says with a laugh, and Sam looks up to see several people sitting at a table across the room that is now open before him. There's one man standing in the kitchen to Sam's left, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt. This is the man who spoke up, Sam realizes when he continues, and the moment of recognition that comes with the following words has every muscle in Sam's body tensing. "It's nice to formally meet you. The name's Steve Rogers."


	3. Chapter 3

"The name's Steve Rogers."

The words echo in Sam's mind as his entire body goes rigid, cementing him to the spot as he registers for the first time the severity of the situation that he's gotten himself into. Stark is one thing—while the billionaire is far from normal, he's 100% human and that goes a long way in Sam's world—but standing here in front of America's hero, Sam finally realizes that coming to Avengers Tower is far from the funny, casual trip that he's been acting like it is. And so Sam finds himself frozen in place, unable to completely process the fact that Captain America is standing before him.

It's not that Sam is starstruck. In fact, Sam isn't even a big fan of the supersoldier. Even before Steve Rogers was found frozen in the Arctic, Sam was never really interested in who he saw as a dead war hero who happened to have an interesting origin story. He saw the idea of superpowers as kind of ridiculous, even knowing what he did about the supernatural. Ghosts and werewolves and wendigos made sense in Sam's world because they had no connection to it—they were products of something outside of humanity. But Captain America was a human creation, a product of science, and, desperate for some semblance of control over the insane life that he led, 12-year-old Sam Winchester decided that the supersoldier serum was the place to draw the line. He even thought that the Captain was a myth or a conspiracy theory—not so much that the man himself didn't exist but that his abilities were greatly overexaggerated—a belief that he maintained up until the point of Captain America's grand and heavily-televised return.

Firmly standing on the other end of the spectrum, however, was Dean. Dean loved the first Avenger. He had various editions of Captain America comic books—painstakingly collected at small comic stores using whatever money he had to spare—lining the bottom of his duffel for years, and Sam knows that even now his brother's room at the bunker holds a worn set of rare first-edition Captain America trading cards—cards that Sam himself gifted his brother for his fifteenth birthday—hidden not-so-discreetly in his sock drawer. Sam couldn't understand his brother's obsession for years, up until the day that he learned the truth about the 'family business'. That's about the time that Sam realized Dean's hero worship of Captain America was actually more of a security blanket for the little boy who knew too much about the supernatural. Where Sam saw a gap in reality too large for him to cross, Dean saw a welcome break from the monsters he fought every day. While the brothers never discussed it, Sam figures that Dean saw Captain Steve Rogers as someone who was immune to the supernatural world that Dean was all too familiar with, the only person strong enough—and disconnected enough—to be truly safe from them. Dean spent the majority of his childhood worrying that everyone he met would eventually themselves meet a horrible end, so Captain America was a sort of break, a fantasy—someone Dean could care about without fretting about accidentally introducing him to his death.

While Dean's comic book and trading card collections diminished as he grew up, Sam knows his love of the first Avenger didn't.

So when meeting the Captain face-to-face for the first time, Sam freezes not because he's starstruck but because he knows that he's meeting his brother's hero. Although it doesn't help that he's also struck with the sudden realization that Dean Winchester is probably one of Steve Rogers' least favorite people on the entire planet.

And therein lies the bigger issue. Sam came to Avengers Tower with Matt because his blind friend didn't want his identity to be revealed—and in the process shoved aside his fears that his own identity may be brought to light. Darkside needs the support of the Earth's mightiest heroes, but one misstep could be fatal—if any one of these people learns who Sam really is, the life he's so carefully built in Manhattan will collapse like a house of cards. He's a terrorist, a terrorist with a pre-existing rap sheet filled with murders and kidnappings and all sorts of things that could get Sam the death penalty in the blink of an eye. It's a miracle that Dean was given life, a miracle that the state of Kansas took pity on the heartless psychopath who set a bomb to kill a city and sacrificed his brother to achieve it. Sam has read the papers, seen the reports, and they all say the same thing: the Winchester brothers are some of the most hated people in the country. If the Avengers—if Steve 'Truth, Justice, and the American Way' Rogers—were to find out who really hides behind Darkside's mask, it would take another miracle for Sam to get out of the Tower alive.

Coming here, Sam decides when he sees the way Captain Rogers scans his form with crossed arms and furrowed brows, was a mistake. But unfortunately, it's far too late to back out now. If Sam vanishes, teleports back to Hell's Kitchen, he'll just bring more attention to himself—and not the good kind. He's just going to have to stick around and hope he doesn't end the night in the grave he started digging for himself the second he put on a mask and gave himself a superhero name.

"I'm Daredevil, and this is Darkside," Matt says, pulling Sam from his thoughts as that very name is delivered to the Avengers. Matt angles his head in Sam's direction, his mouth twisting into an expression of concern for a split second before returning to the comfortable smirk he's been wearing since Iron Man landed beside them. "But I'm sure you already knew that." The room is silent for a moment, then Matt makes a single soft click with his tongue, tilting his head to one side. It takes Sam a moment—and a light jab in the ribs from Matt—to realize that Captain Rogers looks confused by the quiet sound that only the occupants of the room with enhanced hearing could have possibly made out.

"It's nice to meet you, Captain. Really." Sam says with as much fake enthusiasm as he can muster, extending a hand in an attempt to distract the supersoldier from Matt's behavior. A lot of the lounge they're standing in appears to be made out of metal, so it probably resonates pretty well. More likely than not, Matt's solitary click was an attempt to build a more solid picture of the room he's currently stranded in.

"The pleasure is mine." Captain Rogers replies, taking Sam's gloved hand and shaking it firmly. "You two have been doing a lot of good work in Manhattan."

"Thank you," Sam says, glancing back at the door he and Matt came through only to discover that it has once again become flush with the wall. "Is every door in this place like that?" Sam asks despite himself and Rogers laughs, shaking his head.

"The back elevator Stark brought you up in is meant to be a somewhat hidden entrance." The supersoldier explains, pointing his thumb over his shoulder to another elevator that opens right into the large room that appears to be some sort of communal space. "The main entrance is over there. This lounge is the main room on this floor, and everything else accessible from that hallway you saw is private, mostly Stark's things." Sam nods, figuring that the billionaire probably stores a few suits in one of those back rooms or maybe even has a workshop.

"Hey, Steve, you ain't the only one in here." Another voice calls out suddenly, laden with a slight accent some subconscious part of Sam's mind identifies as coming from New York. Sam looks past Captain Rogers to the far table, finally taking the time to examine the people who have been seated there quietly since Sam and Matt walked in.

There are three people currently sitting at what Sam takes to be the dining table, two men and a woman. The woman Sam immediately recognizes as Natasha Romanoff—also a favorite Avenger of Dean's, although in a very different respect—and he's fairly certain that the man with short brown hair seated to Romanoff's left is Hawkeye if the glimpse Sam got of the bow-wielding Avenger last night was any indication. But the third man at the table—the one who spoke up—is a mystery to Sam. His black hair is cut in a similar style to Sam's, the same length if not longer, and his eyes are a dark, piercing blue that reminds Sam of Castiel when someone has just really pissed him off. The man is wearing a black leather jacket despite the relatively warm climate of the room—not that Sam can judge, considering the fact that he's also wearing a jacket—but what catches Sam's eye is the metal hand resting on the table in front of the man, clasped loosely around a flesh and bone one. The man's left side is hidden from Sam's view but he's fairly certain that the metal arm extends up past the man's elbow, possibly even to his shoulder.

Some part of Sam is almost jealous of the obviously high-tech prosthetic.

"Right." Captain Rogers sounds a little bit embarrassed as he turns, gesturing to the table at large. "Friends, this is Darkside and Daredevil. Darkside, Daredevil, I'd like to introduce you to Agents Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton, and Bucky Barnes." The unidentified man's name triggers a reaction somewhere deep inside of Sam's mind but he doesn't bother to investigate further, assuming that the man—Sam didn't miss the fact that Barnes was separated from the two agents—is a friend of Rogers's in some way, perhaps someone Sam has seen on the news once or twice over the past few years.

"Nice to meet you," Sam says politely, gauging the Avengers' reactions. Romanoff simply lifts a hand in greeting, her face set in an expression of perpetual boredom but her eyes alight with curiosity. Barton grins widely, waving enthusiastically. Barnes just nods, gesturing with his metal hand for Sam and Matt to join him at the table.

"Captain Rogers, Sir would like to know if Darkside and Daredevil are comfortable," JARVIS speaks up suddenly and Matt's head whips around, stopping only when he's pointed directly at the light above Captain Rogers's head. The Captain frowns, eyeing Matt almost suspiciously, but before he can say anything Barton interrupts with a smirk.

"He should get his ass down here and see for himself." The archer informs JARVIS in a snarky tone. Rogers smiles, shaking his head and grabbing a fruit bowl off of the counter as he heads for the table. Barnes gestures a little more animatedly and Sam glances at Matt, who nods. The two vigilantes walk to the table side by side, taking the two seats on Barton's left. There are still three vacant seats on Barnes's side, one of which—the one immediately to Barnes's right—Captain Rogers takes after placing the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. Romanoff immediately grabs an apple, tossing it in the air and catching it repeatedly as Barton asks Matt a question about the horns on his cowl.

After a few minutes of interrogation poorly disguised as a series of innocent questions, the main elevator to the lounge opens and Stark enters, dressed in a pair of slacks, a nice jacket, and a t-shirt and shadowed by a man in jeans and a sweatshirt who Sam quickly recognizes as Dr. Bruce Banner, a fact that is promptly confirmed by Stark. The duo doesn't waste any time joining the party, taking the two remaining seats directly across from Sam and Matt and adding to the interrogation by asking Matt additional questions of their own. Since Daredevil appears to be the focus of the questions—for now, at least—Sam allows his mind to wander until he's jolted back to reality by Matt.

"Darkside." The other vigilante says forcefully, jabbing Sam hard in the ribs to punctuate his words. Matt's tone suggests that he's repeated Sam's name several times and Sam flushes, thankful for the millionth time that his mask covers his cheeks—and too flustered to recall what it was that he was even thinking about.

"Sorry, got lost in my own head." Sam apologizes to the room at large, unsure exactly what he's supposed to be reacting to—and noticing that the table before him now holds several plates of food that he doesn't remember being delivered.

"No problem." Captain Rogers says, clasping his hands together and leaning forward. Sam notes that the Captain's plate is much larger than his own but almost empty nonetheless. To the Captain's left, Barnes's attention is mostly on his food, while to his right Stark is eating enthusiastically but keeping his eyes on Sam. As he waits for Rogers to continue, Sam eyes the food on his own plate, wondering if it would be rude not to eat it—and if so, how he's supposed to manage without taking off his mask. "I was just wondering what happened to your eyes?"

"Hmm?" Sam hums, confused.

"Like, how did they become yellow like that?" Barton specifies and Sam nods. Right. More often than not he forgets that his yellow vision is accompanied by yellow irises, due mostly to the fact that he himself can't actually see them.

"It's a side effect of getting my powers," Sam explains somewhat awkwardly, hoping that the line of questioning doesn't extend into the event itself. It's been almost a year since he was kidnapped, eight months since his escape, but Sam still can't look back on those memories without being pulled into forceful—and unpleasant—flashbacks. Even Matt has only been given the barebones description of what happened.

Although it doesn't help that Sam still doesn't remember exactly what happened.

"How long ago did you get them?" Romanoff asks, curiosity bleeding into her tone. It's obvious that this—the interrogation session with the Avengers—was the main reason for the spontaneous invitation. Sam isn't surprised. If he was the big hero in town, he'd want to know more about the newcomers, too.

"Less than a year ago," Sam says truthfully, recalling a remark Dean once made about Romanoff's spectacular lie-detecting skills. Sam will have to be very careful about what he says around her if he doesn't want every secret he has—big and small—to be exposed to everyone in the room.

"And you, Daredevil?" Rogers asks, turning to Sam's friend.

"Oh, I don't really have superpowers," Matt says, apparently unwilling to reveal the extent of his own abilities just yet—not that Sam is being entirely open about his. "Just a lot of martial arts training."

"Yeah! Go, ordinary humans!" Barton holds up a hand and Sam bites the inside of his cheek. Matt, luckily, executes the high five perfectly, although he looks about as nervous as Sam feels. Both of their secret identities are at risk here, with the world's best spies and smartest men staring them down and JARVIS watching—and likely recording—their every move.

As Stark opens his mouth, obviously preparing to open another line of questioning, Sam holds up his hand. If he doesn't intervene now, he may never get another chance.

"How about we ask you some questions?" Sam suggests, earning a grateful smile from Matt as the Avengers turn their attention to the yellow-eyed vigilante. "You've pretty much been interrogating us since we got here, it's only fair that we get to ask you a few things."

"Shoot," Stark says, leaning back and lacing his fingers together behind his head.

"Why invite us now?" Sam asks, biting the inside of his cheek. Thankful for a break from the questions, Matt grabs his fork and knife and starts to cut the chicken breast on his plate. "I mean, we've basically just been dealing with drug dealers and muggers for the past few months. Why not right after the whole thing with the Demon?"

"We couldn't find you," Stark admits with a frown, obviously annoyed by that fact. "We wanted to track you two down sooner but we could never figure out where exactly you'd end up. Romanoff and Barton have been carrying those invitations around for months now, just in case they actually managed to find you." Sam decides to take that as a compliment, thankful that his years of training in avoiding tails and routines remained intact. Matt smirks, obviously proud of his own abilities.

"Anything else?" Rogers asks once it's clear that Stark isn't planning to continue.

"I was wondering about Mr. Barnes's arm, actually," Matt speaks up, turning in the direction of the man in question. Barnes stiffens, metal fingers stiffening around his fork as he eyes Matt worriedly. "The prosthetic, what material is it made out of? I've never seen anything quite like it." Barnes relaxes somewhat at the question, then turns and gives Rogers a pleading look.

"It's vibranium," Rogers answers for his friend, smiling at Matt. "The same material that my shield is made from. It's extremely rare, which is why you probably haven't seen it before. Only found in one place in the world, Wakanda." Sam nods, recognizing the name almost immediately.

Up until recently, Wakanda was a country that Sam knew only in association with relief efforts in Africa. After his escape from the demons, however, he discovered through the news that the country was actually one of the richest in the world, hidden behind advanced cloaking technology to keep the valuable metal inside the country's borders—vibranium, apparently—safe from outsiders. The opening of Wakanda's borders happened while Sam was still with the demons but the country's name often pops up in the headlines even now, months later, thanks to the programs that are continually popping up worldwide courtesy of Wakanda's king—a man who, Sam recalls, is a superhero himself.

"Oh, Darkside, that reminds me," Stark says, turning away from Rogers and placing his fork down on his half-empty plate. "After I worked on Barnes's new arm, I started messing around with other prosthetics. I was wondering if you'd like to test out a leg sometime?" Sam's eyes widen and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, thankful that his mask hides the nervous tic. Beside Sam, Matt tenses, and all of the Avengers turn in Sam's direction, their food forgotten in light of this new information. Rogers is the first to tear his eyes away from Sam, turning to Stark with an eyebrow raised.

"What are you talking about?" He asks. Stark glances at Rogers, noting his eyebrow before turning to Sam and flushing once he sees the worry on his face.

"Oh," Stark says, apparently finally coming to the realization that Sam's lack of a leg wasn't exactly public information. "You aren't the one who told me that, are you." Sam shakes his head and Stark's face grows red as he rubs the back of his neck. "Um, oops?"

"That would be great, actually," Sam says with a sigh, attempting to dissipate the tension rapidly growing in the room with every passing second. It doesn't take long for the rest of the Avengers to connect the dots. It's clear that Banner, Romanoff, and Barnes are the first to realize what exactly is going on, but in the end, Barton is the one who finally works up the courage to ask Sam the question that is now most likely on every Avenger's mind.

"You have a prosthetic leg?"

Sam knew that this dinner was a bad idea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I spent most of the day yesterday in the car and couldn't post. I hope you enjoy!

"I'm really sorry, I forgot that JARVIS is the one who told me, not you." Stark apologizes for about the fifth time, sounding genuinely concerned. Sam is surprised by that—he wasn't expecting the publicly quite crass billionaire to be so worried about a misunderstanding like this one—and he shakes his head, smiling weakly even though he knows no one can see it through his mask.

"It would have come out eventually anyways, and I do really need an upgrade," Sam says truthfully—with his nighttime activities, basic prosthetics don't seem to last long, and the leg that Matt gave him for his birthday months ago, whilestronger than the one that came before it, is quickly deteriorating.

"How did JARVIS know?" Matt asks the important question that Sam hadn't even considered. The AI/guy manning the intercom/whatever JARVIS is can obviously do a lot, but Sam is curious about how exactly the system of receivers, speakers, and probably cameras knew about his well-hidden disability.

"Whenever there are guests, I automatically perform a full body scan," JARVIS replies helpfully. "The infrared portion of the scan identified the non-human properties of your right leg, and this information was included in the report sent to Sir."

"It never crossed my mind that you didn't say anything yourself about it" Stark adds in an attempt to further alienate himself from blame.

"Of course not," Barnes replies derisively, speaking up for the first time since the revelation. "It's not like a missing limb is a major identifying feature or anything." After this remark, Stark somehow manages to look more uncomfortable, which is surprisingly reassuring for Sam—if Stark is so worried about accidentally revealing an identifying feature, identifying Darkside and Daredevil must not be high on the Avengers' list of priorities, which is good news for Sam.

"That information will never leave this room." Captain Rogers promises. "We're the only ones who will know."

"You ain't getting it, Steve," Barnes says, sounding a little irritated now. "Heroes who cover their eyes are hiding from the people close to them. Their friends, their families." He nods to Matt, who bows his head instinctively. "Heroes who cover their mouths are hiding from the world." This time he nods to Sam. "Darkside doesn't want anyone knowing his identity, Steve, even us."

It's these words that finally help Sam realize who it is that's sitting before him. He recalls, suddenly, news footage of Captain America and the Black Widow fighting a man on a highway who was referred to as the Winter Soldier. A man with a metal arm. A man with a mask that obscured his mouth. A man who was later identified as Captain America's old war buddy, Sergeant James Barnes.

Sam—along with the rest of the world—learned about the Winter Soldier thanks to the SHIELD leak in 2012. After the Avengers' fight over the Sokovia Accords—which were later appealed thanks to a joint venture by Steve Rogers and Tony Stark—Barnes went to Wakanda, a detail revealed upon his return to the United States not two weeks after Dean Winchester's trial began—something that Sam doubts is a coincidence. It's no secret that Barnes is still at least a little bit unstable, that the Winter Soldier is still at least somewhat a danger, and Dean's trial was an effective distraction to keep the media—and by extension, the public—from focusing their attention on the return of one of America's most hotly debated people.

"I think that we should go," Matt says suddenly, drawing Sam's attention back to the matter at hand as the horned vigilante climbs to his feet. Sam is quick to follow his friend's lead, and the two vigilantes head for the back door that they originally used to enter.

"Hold on, we haven't even gotten to the reason you were invited yet," Stark says and Sam frowns, stopping in his tracks along with Matt, whose mouth twists into a sort of smirk/frown hybrid.

"We haven't?" Matt asks, turning around to face the Avengers. Sam follows suit but doesn't do a full 180, only turning his body halfway around—he needs to be ready to grab Matt and disappear if this interaction goes any further south than it already has. "I assumed your little interrogation was the main focus of this meeting." Stark frowns at this, and most of the Avengers have the decency to look at least a little bit guilty.

"Your abilities." Captain Rogers speaks up after a minute. "We wanted to know more about you, or rather, what you can do. Your powers."

"I don't have any," Matt says stiffly and Romanoff perks up, smirking.

"Lie." She says simply, and Matt winces.

"I have enhanced senses." He admits, tone sharp and filled with obvious displeasure. Sam bites the inside of his lip, all too aware of the rapidly deteriorating mood. He should have known that this wasn't going to end well for anyone involved. "That's it." Matt adds after a moment, implying with a hard nod that he's done sharing regardless of if the Avengers believe him or not. Luckily Romanoff nods, apparently satisfied, and turns her attention to Sam. The rest of the Avengers follow suit and Sam swallows hard, biting the inside of his cheek.

"I'm just enhanced." He says, relying on half-truths and preexisting footage and hoping that the Avengers are smart enough not to press. "A little." Sam finds himself elaborating when he sees the skepticism on Romanoff's face. "Enhanced senses, but not on the same level as Daredevil's. Enhanced healing and strength, but not on par with Captain America. And both of us have some skill in fighting. Various styles." Romanoff seems content with that answer so Sam turns back around, prepared to make his escape.

"Wait," Stark calls once more and Sam curses internally as he nods, glancing over his shoulder at the billionaire. "I still want to build you that prosthetic. Got a place I can send it to?"

"Nope," Sam says shortly, smirking a bit. "I can pick it up from here, just send another arrow." He turns back around and makes for the door and Matt follows, frowning to himself. They're almost to the doorway when Matt suddenly freezes, cocking his head to one side.

"Sam." He whispers urgently and Sam forces his senses out, picking up on some kind of projectile headed for them. Sam instinctively throws up his hand and several of the Avengers gasp as the projectile stops in its tracks. Sam turns around to see an apple frozen in the air a few inches away from his face. He drops his hand and the apple falls, landing in his open palm.

It's the same apple that Romanoff took out of the fruit basket shortly after Sam and Matt first sat down. Has she been waiting to do this the entire time?

"Not just enhanced after all," Romanoff comments sweetly, holding up her hand. Sam tosses the apple in her direction, using his hand to direct the momentum slightly so that the apple lands neatly in Romanoff's outstretched hand. The spy's smirk widens and Sam grins as an idea begins to take shape in his mind.

"A magician never reveals all of his tricks," Sam says, grabbing Matt's upper arm. "Neither does a vigilante." Matt nods and Sam lifts his free hand, waving to the Avengers as he pictures the roof of Matt's apartment building in his mind.

A moment later, Sam and Matt are standing on Matt's roof, back in Hell's Kitchen. The yellow in Sam's vision melts away as his head pounds and he groans, shaking his head. He can only use his yellow vision for so long before he gets a headache, and using his other abilities only serves to aggravate the detrimental effects. Plus, Sam has never teleported that far of a distance with another person before, only alone. Something tells him he's going to be regretting his decision for the next few days.

"You just had to be dramatic." Matt teases, unlocking his roof-access door and heading down the stairs into his apartment. Sam follows, grimacing as the bright light from the billboard sends a sharp pain through his head. He comes to a stop beside the couch and pulls down his mask and Matt is quick to follow suit, pulling his cowl off and letting his dark hair fall around his eyes—to this day, Sam has no idea how the blind man's hair can stay so springy after hours shoved into that helmet. Sam takes a deep breath and a smile spreads across his face as he relishes the clear flow of air. The mask Melvin made for him is more lightweight and breathable than anything Sam could have ever wished for, but it's still nice to take in a full breath without the barrier—however slight—that the cloth creates.

"They know too much about me," Sam explains. "What better way to distract them from figuring out my identity than by giving them some superpowers to puzzle out?" Matt shrugs before disappearing into his bedroom to change and Sam sits down on the couch, putting his feet up on Matt's coffee table. Matt is probably going to insist that Sam spend the night, so he might as well get comfortable.

"They're just going to be more interested in you now," Matt calls from the bedroom. "You won't be able to hide from them forever. Tony Stark literally has satellites he could track you with."

"I'll be fine," Sam says, wishing he felt as confident as he sounds. "I'm dead, remember? Sam Winchester was vaporized in the Lebanon bombing last year. The FBI confirmed it."

"Yes, because Sam Winchester has never come back from the dead before." Matt points out as he walks back into the living room, now clad in a pair of gray sweatpants and a plain red t-shirt. "I'm a lawyer, remember? If you get caught, I'm going to be the one defending you."

"I mean, you don't have to be," Sam says, a smirk spreading across his face. "I could always get a court-appointed lawyer."

"You get a court-appointed lawyer and you'll be serving life faster than you could say 'Darkside'." Matt returns the smile as he carefully returns his Daredevil suit to its place in his wardrobe. "I'd have to represent you." Matt continues as he heads for his kitchen. "You're my friend now, Sam, whether you want to be or not. I could never forgive myself for letting you serve time for the Lebanon bombing when I know you didn't have anything to do with it."

"You and I both know that isn't true," Sam argues, turning around to follow Matt with his eyes. While he didn't set the bomb himself, it's still his fault the demons who did were even in Lebanon in the first place. If Sam and Dean had never found the Men of Letters bunker and continued to spend their time driving around the country, the Lebanon bombing never would have happened.

"You didn't detonate the bomb, which makes you innocent." Matt fills a coffee pot with water from the sink, then sends Sam a pointed look before turning around to put the pot in the coffee maker.

"Of that," Sam replies, frowning. "Remember, the FBI was on my ass long before the Lebanon bombing."

"And you're innocent of most of those charges, too," Matt says. He opens a cabinet, pulling out two mugs and setting them down next to the coffee maker.

"Not in the eyes of the general public. Certainly not in the eyes of the government." Sam points out.

"Well, I know you're innocent. So do Karen, Jessica, and Foggy." Matt counters. "And if you ever do end up in court, we're the ones you're going to want on your side."

"Let's just hope it never comes to that," Sam says, shaking his head. The coffee maker beeps and Matt pulls the pot out, pouring coffee into both of the mugs.

"It won't." He says, taking one mug in each hand and walking over to the couch. Matt passes one mug to Sam then sits down in one of the chairs across the table from him, taking a sip before he continues. "Like you said, you're legally dead. Someone could easily recognize you and simply brush it off as a coincidence. People are surprisingly willing to ignore things that are staring in the face if those things don't conform to their worldview." Sam smirks at this, recalling numerous occasions when he had to deal with people who were willing to accept any explanation but the supernatural.

"Trust me, I know," Sam says, taking a small sip of his coffee.

Sam expects Matt to make another comment or try to further his argument in some way but the blind man remains silent, drinking his coffee and staring at a point somewhere over Sam's right shoulder as he loses himself in his thoughts. Sam figures he's probably thinking about the clients he has to meet tomorrow or when his next rent payment is due, or maybe even the likelihood that he'll be invited back to Avengers Tower.

As the coffee in Sam's mug starts to go cold, Sam begins to follow in Matt's footsteps and lose himself in his own mind. But instead of mundane things like work and paying rent, Sam finds himself prodding once again at the walls of mist that cloud his mind.

Despite Matt's insistence that Sam is innocent in the Lebanon bombing, some small part of Sam refuses to believe that he had nothing to do with it. The majority of Sam's memories of that fateful day and the days leading up to it are still a mystery to him, shrouded in a dark, stiff fog that, try as he might, Sam can't seem to navigate through. The truth is, Sam has no idea what role he played in the bombing of Lebanon. The few memories that he does have—mostly short, confusing flashes of blood and dust that do nothing to assuage Sam's fears—seem to point to Sam's innocence, but Sam has been misled by his own mind before. He's made the mistake of trusting himself one time too many, and if his actions last night—the image of the tattooed man bleeding in the alleyway is not one that Sam will forget in the near future—are any indication, Sam is not nearly the innocent man his new friends in Manhattan seem to think he is.

The dark side of Sam scares him not because he knows it's there, but because he doesn't. Sam doesn't know how much of him is evil, how much of his soul was turned away from the light by the blood Asmodeus forced upon him—and how much of it had already been corrupted long before by another demon with swirling yellow eyes.

And that thought that not even he knows the true extent of his own corruption, that scares Sam far more than his fears of the demons and the police ever will.


	5. Chapter 5

After the disaster that was dinner with the Avengers, Sam's life runs surprisingly smoothly for a few days. He spends his daylight hours on his laptop or sleeping—thanks to his unusual nighttime hobbies, Sam has pretty much become nocturnal at this point—and fills his nights with criminal takedowns, focusing his attention mostly on petty thieves and other small-time criminals. Following the major stakes brought on by his fight with the Demon, Sam decided to avoid other bigshots for a while, choosing to let Daredevil take care of any potential big bads rather than going after them himself—although, luckily, there haven't been all too many major players in the criminal world since the Demon's downfall.

In the days following his meeting with the Avengers, however, Sam finds himself almost wishing there was another criminal mastermind with a ton of power and henchmen for him to fight, more for the distraction than for the potential press. Sam's mind has been haunted by the articles he read about Dean's conviction nonstop since the day they hit the papers, images of his brother trapped in a concrete cage filling his mind regardless of whether he's asleep or awake. What pains Sam the most is the knowledge that he had endless opportunities to save Dean from this fate, that he still could break Dean out of prison any time he wanted. There's really nothing stopping Sam from teleporting into the prison, grabbing his brother, and teleporting out without anyone being the wiser—nothing but Sam himself. Sam knows that staging a jailbreak would not only betray the trust he's painstakingly earned from the city of New York and his new friends in Manhattan, but also the trust he's finally begun to put into himself.

Sam is trying to be better than the person he was—the hunter he never wanted to be—and he knows in his heart that the first step in achieving that is letting his brother go.

But that isn't to say that Sam isn't going to fight for Dean's freedom. Sam never plans to give up on freeing his brother from prison, he just has to be more careful in how he goes about it. Sam has been meeting Matt at his apartment every night since Dean's sentencing, planning how to appeal the decision without threatening Sam's life in Manhattan and how to gather and verify the evidence they'd need to prove the elder Winchester's innocence. Unfortunately, even if the pair of law-trained vigilantes somehow manages to find concrete proof that Dean didn't plant the bomb that destroyed Lebanon—something that in of itself is extremely unlikely, given the fact that even now, a year later, the scene of the crime is still buried under concrete and debris—the appeals process itself would take so long that Dean could still be in prison for years before Matt successfully gets him out.

It absolutely kills Sam, knowing that no matter how hard he tries, as long as he stays legit, his brother is going to remain trapped. And it's the image of his big brother locked in a concrete cage—one that in his mind bears a striking resemblance to another cage that Sam himself spent far too long in—that haunts Sam day in and day out.

It's that very image that's hounding Sam when he finds himself jogging down the street the Monday after Dean's sentencing. It's the first day of October, and the cool, biting wind is refreshing rather than freezing, so Sam has decided to forgo his jacket, running instead in a pair of black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. While the memories that the oncoming cold bring to the forefront of Sam's mind are not ones that he's particularly fond of remembering, they're a welcome break from the near-constant stream of thoughts about Dean's imprisonment, and so Sam finds himself embracing the chill of a fallen angel's soul—and pushing back the discomfort that very idea brings forward about Sam's moral alignment.

Sam's unmapped, unplanned jogging path takes him into the Avengers' turf and he finds himself stopping momentarily a few blocks away from their tower, taking care to avoid the cameras that are inevitably posted on the perimeter of the building as he breathes heavily, hands resting on his knees. Up until his visit to the Tower five days ago, Sam never willingly stepped within a five-block radius of the Avengers' home, unwilling to risk being seen by one of the Earth's mightiest heroes. That hesitancy is still alive and well, but seeing the Avengers acting like everyone else has calmed him somewhat—his fears of the Avengers discovering his true identity have been assuaged somewhat by the reminder that Tony Stark, while powerful, is not omnipotent.

Nonetheless, when he returns to his jog, Sam makes sure to follow a path that takes him in a wide arc around the tower—Stark may not be all-knowing, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have cameras watching the streets surrounding his famed tower.

Sam returns to Hell's Kitchen and heads for Matt's apartment—the lawyer invited him to have dinner, and while Sam doesn't eat nearly as much these days as he used to, he still jumped at the chance to eat anything at all—and he's only about three blocks away, his mind already focused on the trek up the numerous flights of stairs in Matt's building, when a hand grabs the back of his shirt, pulling him suddenly and forcefully into an alleyway.

Sam's first instinct is to deliver a strong punch to his attacker's face, but when he turns and swings his hand flies right over their head. A familiar laugh reaches Sam's ears and he drops his fists, looking down to find Claire Novak staring up at him, relief and worry warring on her face.

"Sam!" She exclaims after a moment, opening her arms. Sam interprets the motion as forgiveness for him trying to punch her and quickly wraps his arms around the blonde hunter, pulling her into a tight hug.

"What are you doing in Hell's Kitchen, Claire?" Sam asks, raising an eyebrow quizzically as soon as he releases his friend. He hasn't seen Jody Mills or her daughters since he and the Defenders rescued them from the Demon five months ago, and although he makes sure to speak with Jody on the phone at least once a week, he doesn't recall her mentioning an upcoming visit to Manhattan.

"Hunting a werewolf," Claire says nonchalantly, not a hint of hesitation in her tone—which is surprising, considering she's lying to Sam's face. Sam doesn't respond immediately, turning away from Claire and glancing up at the sky. The moon is already directly overhead despite the fact that the sun has barely set, and Sam can clearly see an issue with Claire's excuse.

"The full moon isn't until next week." He comments, turning back to the young hunter and crossing his arms. "And while I may not actively hunt these days, I've still been keeping an eye out for any monsters in the area. I've seen some evidence of a shapeshifter or two, but nothing that suggests the presence of a werewolf." Sam keeps his tone light and nonaccusatory but Claire flushes anyway, clearly not expecting her white lie to fall apart so quickly. "So, why are you really here?" Sam asks when it becomes clear that the blonde won't be forthcoming on her own.

"Honestly? I came up to Manhattan to check on you." Claire admits, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she speaks. Sam raises an eyebrow and Claire avoids his gaze, looking down at her feet. "Jody, Alex, and I were worried about you. We saw the news." Sam sighs at this, shaking his head.

"I'll be okay." He says, waiting until Claire meets his eyes again to offer her a reassuring smile. The ever-observant blonde just frowns, obviously far from believing Sam—with good reason, considering he certainly hasn't been acting like someone who is 'okay'. "I swear." Sam insists regardless—the last thing he wants is for Jody and her girls to waste their time worrying about him—running a hand through his hair as he speaks. "It'll take me some time to fully process, but I'll be fine." He pauses, looking Claire over with careful eyes—he truly believes that she's here for him, not a hunt, but that doesn't mean he can't worry. "You didn't need to come all this way, you know."

"So you aren't going to try to break Dean out?" Claire asks, ignoring Sam's statement entirely and planting her hands on her hips. Sam shakes his head and Claire raises her eyebrows skeptically, forcing Sam to elaborate.

"I don't want to risk everything I've built here over the past few months," Sam explains, gesturing to Manhattan as a whole. "And besides, even if I did free Dean, where would we go? The bunker is too close to Lebanon, we couldn't risk going back there." Claire frowns at this—it's probably not something she's considered before. If Sam is being honest, it's not something he's thought about that much until now, either.

He's perfectly fine living on the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen. For Sam, the bunker was another temporary home, just like everywhere else he's ever lived. It was never supposed to be permanent, so losing it isn't that big of a deal for him. But for Dean—who actually turned the bunker into someplace liveable, actually formed a connection to it—losing the bunker is like losing his home in Lawrence all over again. If Sam broke Dean out of prison, they'd have nowhere to go, nowhere to live. No Impala—the thought briefly crosses Sam's mind that he still has no idea where the car ended up—and, thanks to their new status as infamous terrorists, no access to motels.

While Sam is fine with being pretty much homeless, he knows that Dean wouldn't be okay living that way—or rather, wouldn't be okay with Sam living that way.

Sam sets that tangent aside for the time being—after all, it's not like he and Dean will need to be looking for housing any time soon.

"No, I'm not going to try to break Dean out." Sam insists. Claire nods hesitantly, obviously still unconvinced. Sam can't prove it to her through his words, so he'll have to do it through his actions—by actively not breaking Dean out of prison. Shouldn't be too hard. "Now, is that all, or are you here for something other than to measure my current sanity?" Sam figures his tone is probably a bit harsh but he's getting tired of Claire's questions about his brother—he's been thinking about Dean nonstop for the past five days without any assistance from well-meaning friends, and the whole point of the jog that Claire interrupted was to take his mind off of that whole situation.

"Actually, I did have another reason for coming," Claire admits. "Jody has been monitoring the news, and she's kind of concerned about this new vigilante in Manhattan that people are talking about." Sam nods, thankful for the subject change.

"Are you talking about that guy who killed an ex-cop two days ago?" He asks and Claire nods, shifting her weight uncomfortably. It's pretty clear to Sam that this particular topic was brought up on Jody's behalf, and Claire doesn't seem too keen to discuss it at length. Sam, however, is leaning more toward the side of the sheriff on this one.

The man in question first appeared in New York City in July and quickly gained a cult following after he killed several low-level drug runners who were involved in a deadly shootout the month before. Up until two days ago, all of his targets have been small-time criminals suspected of playing roles in drug-related murders, so the rest of the city's vigilantes have been pretty much leaving him be. But killing an ex-cop, even a dirty one, is a big step up, and if he's being honest, Sam is actually starting to grow a little bit concerned about how much the vigilante will escalate and how far he'll eventually go.

"Do you know anything about him?" Claire asks, a blanket of hesitancy and false boredom failing to obscure the curiosity and worry intertwined in her voice.

"Not much," Sam admits. "I haven't had any run-ins with him as of yet, and neither have any of the Defenders. From what I've heard, he's killing people who committed violent crimes—murders usually—and either weren't convicted or got out of prison early for one reason or another. The Daily Bugle has started calling him the Judge, as in 'judge, jury, and executioner'."

"You don't think he'll go after you, do you?" Claire asks worriedly and Sam shrugs, hoping to convey an air of nonchalance he doesn't really feel. The question is one he's been too scared to ask himself, and as he tries to talk Claire's concerns down, he finds himself assuaging his own as well.

"I mean, I'm technically dead, right?" Sam points out. "Plus, the Judge seems to be steering clear of established superheroes—he hasn't killed anyone in Hell's Kitchen or Harlem yet,and he seems to be avoiding the area around Avengers Tower. I don't think he's too concerned with vigilantes like me and the Defenders, but if it makes you feel any better, I promise I'll keep an eye out for any trouble."

"You'd better," Claire says, straightening up and puffing out her chest—likely in response to Sam's comment about making her feel better. Sam laughs, shaking his head and pulling the smaller hunter into another tight hug.

"I'm watching my back, Claire." He says. "Tell Jody and Alex hi for me, okay? And tell them that I'm being careful."

"Anything else?" Claire asks, frowning. Sam waits for the blonde to gather her thoughts, as there's obviously still something on her mind. "You know," she begins after a moment, "those hunters you spooked in Madison a few months back are still trying to organize a witch hunt. Maybe you should do something to quell the rumors." Sam pauses, considering. Claire brings up a valid point.

With everything that was going on with the Demon, Sam never really had the time to do any damage control concerning his dramatic exit from the hunters' dive in Madison. It's been six or so months since the incident, so really there isn't much Sam can do to quell whatever rumors have been flying, but trying to keep his own activities on the down low—especially in the wake of Dean's sentencing—should probably be a priority. After all, regardless of how dead the general public thinks Sam is, it will only take one rumor of his death in Lebanon being anything but real to put his new life in New York in danger.

"Tell Jody to give Ronnie Matthews the rundown on what I'm doing." Sam decides. "Not the Darkside stuff, just that I'm alive and roughly human. He'll know who else to tell and how to tell them." Sam's encounter with the older hunter at the dive in Madison told Sam that Matthews has adopted the role in the community that was left empty after Bobby's death—he's the leader of the pack and, luckily, someone that Sam is pretty sure he can trust. If Sam needs accurate information to be spread relatively quickly through the hunters' grapevine, Ronnie Matthews, as the connecting point for hunters all over America, is probably the best person for the job.

"You've got it, Sam," Claire says, stepping out of the alley and onto the sidewalk—a clear indication that she's gotten what she came for. "I've got to catch a flight home in an hour but I'll be sure to call when I land, alright?"

"I'll be waiting," Sam replies. "And tell Jody I'll call her sometime in the next few days, okay?" Claire nods, disappearing down the street without another word. Sam waits a few minutes before he follows the young blonde out of the alley—the last thing he needs is someone thinking he attacked her—and as he continues on his way to Matt's apartment, Claire's words still fresh on his mind, Sam finds himself pulling out his phone.

"Sam?" Karen Page asks, picking up almost as soon as Sam finishes dialing. "What's up?"

"Hey, Karen," Sam says politely. "I was just wondering if you knew anything about the Judge." While it's true that Sam has been keeping an eye on the evolving killer, the amount of verified information he has is extremely limited. And while he never really saw himself at risk of being one of the Judge's victims—by virtue of being legally dead—Claire brought up a point that Sam had never really considered at length: that Darkside, rather than Sam Winchester, would be a target for the vigilante. Sam is fairly certain that he can handle an ordinary human being with a penchant for stabbing people who didn't serve their time, but whenever someone sets their sights on Sam, innocent people tend to get caught in the crossfire, so Sam might as well be as prepared as he can.

"Just what everyone else knows," Karen says. "According to a couple of eyewitnesses from the last murder two days ago, he's African American, around six feet tall and heavy set—kind of similar in appearance to Luke most likely. His only victims so far were either convicted criminals who got commuted sentences or people who went to trial for a violent crime and were found not guilty. He's got seven confirmed kills so far and there are at least two more that NYPD believes he may be responsible for, going back to mid-July. He's toeing the line between vigilante and serial killer, but with the murder of that cop a couple of days ago he may have just crossed it."

"Thanks, Karen," Sam says. Everything she told him is information that he already had, but it's not like the reporter was looking into the Judge. Besides, what she already knows isn't the reason Sam called her. "Can you keep an eye out for anything new about him?"

"Are you worried he might go after you or Matt?" Karen asks, easily picking up on the hesitancy in Sam's tone.

"I'm not sure yet," Sam admits. "But better safe than sorry, right? This guy is still pretty new to Manhattan, there's really no telling what he'll do."

"You're not wrong, Sam. I'll tell you wha-" Karen's voice abruptly cuts off as Sam's phone is wrenched from his hand and thrown into the wall, screen shattering on impact. Rough hands grab Sam's shoulders from behind and he barely has time to process that he's being attacked before he's yanked into another alley and shoved forcefully into the wall. A bolt of pain shoots through Sam's face as his nose connects with the concrete wall and cracks painfully. Sam's phone clatters to the ground and he watches through unfocused eyes as a foot in a black combat boot comes down on top of it, crushing the device with a sickening crunch. Sam tears his eyes away from his ruined phone when he's slammed into the wall once again, his head bouncing off of it with enough force to make his ears ring. His vision whites out for a moment and Sam finds himself disoriented enough by the blow that when the hands on his shoulders disappear, he can't do much more than lean against the wall and try to steady himself.

"Ow." Sam forces out through gritted teeth as his world realigns and he's finally able to make out the faces of the person—or rather people, he soon realizes—who attacked him. There are four men standing before him, all somewhat fit and lightly tattooed but otherwise surprisingly ordinary in that they look like low-level gang members, able to hold their own in a fight but not the least bit supernatural. Sam almost flashes his eyes yellow as a scare tactic before he remembers that he isn't currently wearing his mask or even his jacket.

The next logical question that crosses Sam's mind—once enough of the haze has lifted that Sam can think anything at all—is why exactly these men targeted him. They obviously didn't go after Darkside because, at the moment, Sam isn't Darkside. And if they wanted to mug someone, a relatively fit guy who has at least a few inches on the tallest one of them probably wouldn't be their first choice.

Sam finds his question answered in the worst possible way when one of the men pulls a gun out of his pants and points it at Sam's head, smirking and growling out three words that send Sam's heart straight down into his stomach.

"What's good, Winchester?"


	6. Chapter 6

Sam swallows hard as the man holding the gun laughs, nodding to two of his cronies. There are three men in total standing around Sam, and as his vision clears he spots a fourth in the entrance to the alley he was dragged into, obviously the designated guard. This isn't a mugging, Sam realizes, apprehension rising in his chest. This is a coordinated attack.

"Sam Winchester." The man with the gun—none of the men appear to be particularly forthcoming with their identities, which isn't really surprising, so Sam decides to refer to him as Red on account of his startlingly bright hair—says, stepping forward and pistol-whipping Sam across the face without warning. Stars burst across Sam's vision and his left leg buckles, sending him crashing to the ground. Sam bites back a yell as his left elbow snaps upon impact with the ground, crushed beneath the weight of the rest of Sam's body. Sam takes a deep breath and uses his right hand to push himself onto his back, glaring up at Red, who just smirks and returns to pointing the gun at Sam's face. "You know, you're looking pretty good for a dead man."

"Who the hell are you?" Sam asks through gritted teeth, hugging his stomach with his left hand as he probes his face with his right. Just touching his nose is enough to temporarily white out his vision and Sam isn't very surprised when he touches his fingers to his top lip and they come away bloody. These assholes have already given him a broken arm and a broken nose, and it looks like they're just getting started.

"You know the guy you put in the hospital a few days ago?" Red says with a sneer. "Remember him? About your height, tattoos on both arms, beaten within an inch of his life? That's our boss." Sam shivers involuntarily as he recalls the man in question, the man Sam nearly killed almost a week ago when he lost control of his emotions. Despite the circumstances, and despite the voice in his head screaming otherwise, Sam is actually relieved—Red's anger at Sam putting his boss in the hospital just confirmed that the tattooed man from the alleyway didn't die, which means that Sam didn't kill him.

A sudden, forceful kick to Sam's chest is an effective reminder that not killing the tattooed man—who is, apparently, the leader of a gang—is not going to be good enough to get him out of this alley without serious injuries.

The two men standing on either side of Red—neither of them have done much other than staring menacingly at Sam with their muscles flexed, so he's going to call them Tweedledee and Tweedledum—grab Sam's arms, yanking him forcefully to his knees and then up to his feet. The hand on Sam's left arm moves down to his elbow and grips it painfully, keeping Sam immobile as Red angles his gun downward and pulls the trigger, sending a bullet between Sam's legs that ricochets off of the concrete floor of the alley before burying itself in the brick wall behind him. Small chunks of gravel fly up at the impact, biting into Sam's left ankle and bouncing harmlessly off of his right one. Red is apparently pretty observant because he sees this disparity and alters his aim, sending the next bullet into Sam's right foot. The small piece of metal digs into Sam's foot and he flinches automatically despite the lack of pain, biting the inside of his cheek when Red smirks, obviously pleased with his discovery.

"Looks like the Feds were right all along." He comments to his two henchmen, his smirk twisting into an evil, calculating grin. "Sam Winchester's leg really was the only piece of him left in Lebanon." On Sam's right, Tweedledee reaches down with one arm and lifts the leg of Sam's sweatpants, rolling them up past the knee and exposing the prosthetic leg that lies beneath, reflecting the dim moonlight onto the walls of the alley. Red sends Tweedledee a sharp nod and the bodyguard/henchman/whatever the muscled man is to Red grabs Sam's prosthetic leg right at the ankle, twisting it sharply and without warning. The sound of screeching metal fills the air and echoes down the alley as the knee joint is turned a full 180 degrees, and when Tweedledee and Tweedledum finally release their holds on Sam's arms, he promptly falls on his ass, unable to stand on his right leg now that the prosthetic has been deemed effectively useless. Satisfied that Sam is now fully incapable of even trying to run—not that escape was really in the cards to begin with—Red shoves his gun into the waistband of his dirty jeans and delivers another strong kick to Sam's stomach. Sam groans, instinctively curling protectively around the injury, and the three men take that as their cue to attack all at once, pummeling Sam with a volley of kicks and punches.

At some point in the middle of the barrage, far after Sam has lost his grasp on all markers of the passage of time, one stray boot—or maybe fist—connects with his head and sends him reeling into a world of dizzying colors and debilitating pain, individual hits blurring together into a single massive bruise that covers every inch of Sam's body.

By the time Sam is able to clear his mind enough to even begin to process his surroundings, the beating has stopped. He blinks slowly, groaning when the motion aggravates what must be a dangerous concussion on top of all of his other injuries. Sam looks around the alley and stiffens when his eyes land on Red, who is now the sole occupant other than Sam himself.

"You made a grave mistake when you hurt my boss the other day, Winchester," Red says with a grin, dealing another harsh kick to Sam's chest as he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. The kick knocks all of the air out of Sam's lungs and so Sam watches silently as Red dials, trying desperately to catch his breath even though every heave sends sharp pains through his torso—Sam wouldn't be surprised to discover that he broke several ribs during the course of his beating. "You're going to regret ever stepping foot in New York City." Red continues as he lifts the phone to his ear. Sam, dazed and confused and in as much pain as he is, finds that his mind is locked on a particular detail of his two encounters with whatever gang it is that he managed to piss off.

When Sam attacked the boss in the alley five days ago, he was dressed in full Darkside gear, down to the yellow eyes. He was wearing a mask, wearing a disguise. But when Red and his men attacked Sam tonight, he wasn't wearing anything other than a t-shirt and sweatpants. He wasn't Darkside, he was Sam Winchester. Someone had to have told these men that Darkside was the one who hurt their boss—and Sam sincerely doubts that it was the boss himself—and that someone not only witnessed the attack but also knew that Sam Winchester and Darkside were one and the same. Sam doesn't think Red and his cronies could have possibly figured something like that out on their own, and he doesn't believe for a second that the teenage boy the tattooed man was yelling at in that alley would have said a word to Red. Which begs the question, if it wasn't an insider, who told Red the truth?

"NYPD Tip Hotline." A faint female voice enters Sam's awareness and he looks up to see Red leaning against the far wall of the alley, his entire being radiating an aura of calm and casual that Sam finds himself cursing.

"Sam Winchester is currently in an alley off of Farragut Road between 35th Street and Brooklyn Avenue," Red says, watching as Sam shifts slightly, an alarmed expression on his face. Red sends Sam a shark-like grin as Sam struggles to sit up, desperate to escape now that he realizes what Red's plan was this whole time.

The beating was revenge for the one Sam gave Red's boss, sure, but the real punishment is this. Red is delivering Sam to the NYPD with a bow on his head, and there's absolutely nothing Sam can do to stop it.

"I would say that you'd better hurry, but I don't think he's going anywhere." Red ends the call and drops his phone, grinding it into the pavement with the heel of his shoe before kicking it across the alley for good measure. Sam follows the shattered device with his eyes, watching as it hits the wall and clatters to the ground, coming to a stop right beside Sam's own destroyed phone. "Good luck getting out of this one, Winchester," Red says, delivering one final blow to Sam's stomach before he turns and leaves the alley.

Sam uses his right arm to slowly, carefully push himself into a seated position, grimacing and panting when his ribs protest even the smallest of movements. Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, Sam drags himself over to the nearest wall, right hand and left leg scrabbling for purchase on the rough concrete as his left arm hugs his stomach and his right leg drags uselessly behind. It takes what feels like hours but probably amounts to a couple of minutes, but Sam finally reaches the wall, leaning heavily against it and taking a shallow breath to steady himself as he tries to catalog the extensive damage done to his body by Red and his men.

Sam knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he has at least a few broken ribs, and almost all of them are probably either fractured or severely bruised. His head is pounding mercilessly and every breath makes the world spin—sure signs of a serious concussion—and the concentrated pain around Sam's left eye suggests that he'll have one hell of a shiner tomorrow. His nose is still bleeding, definitely broken, and when Sam rotates his jaw experimentally he feels something shift near his left ear. Sam's entire body is littered with small cuts and large bruises and his left elbow throbs every time he so much as blinks—he wiggles his fingers experimentally and they move without protest so Sam figures his elbow isn't broken, just badly sprained. Unsurprisingly, the most severe of the damage appears to have been dealt to Sam's prosthetic leg. The knee joint is twisted beyond repair and the metal has been battered and bent so far past recognition that it looks less like a leg and more like a piece of modern art. The ruined limb is still attached to the remains of Sam's thigh but that's about all that's going for it—there's no way the leg is even remotely salvageable.

Red was right, Sam figures despairingly—with his prosthetic destroyed and the rest of his body wrecked, Sam isn't going to be going anywhere of his own volition anytime soon. And with his phone destroyed, there's no one he can call for help.

Sam briefly floats the idea of teleporting himself to safety, but just the simple act of activating his yellow vision sends lances of pain throughout his entire body and he nearly blacks out, the world going blank for a moment. Sam grunts, returning his vision to normal and pressing his good hand to his chest in an attempt to stay the wave of nausea that washes over him as a result of the sore attempt. Sam's body is so battered that even his powers have shorted out, which means that Sam is well and truly trapped in this alley.

And thanks to Red's call to NYPD, the police are probably well on their way to Sam's location now.

Unable to do anything but wait for the inevitable, Sam finds himself thinking back to the conversation he had with Matt after they left Avengers Tower. It seems like months ago that they discussed what would happen if Sam were to be discovered in New York and arrested, the conversation purely theoretical at the time but all too real now. Matt said he would represent Sam in court, but is that really true? Would the blind man who insists upon calling Sam his friend really be willing to risk everything he has to represent Sam Winchester with the whole world watching?

Just thinking about the prospect of standing trial makes Sam's heart ache and his breath hitches in his throat as he tries to fight back tears. The action sends the world into a tailspin and Sam moans, closing his eyes and waiting for the dizziness to pass.

If Matt doesn't want to represent Sam, he wouldn't be remotely surprised. Saying you'll do something and actually doing it are two very different things, after all, especially when it comes to stakes as high as these. Without Matt, Sam is screwed, practically guaranteed a life sentence like his brother or even the death penalty—after all, the generosity the state of Kansas showed to Dean isn't likely to be shown to his little brother. But even with Matt on his side, there's no way to be certain that Sam won't still end up in a concrete box one room over from Dean.

It's the first of October, 2018. The bombing of Lebanon, Kansas took place 360 days ago. It's been almost a full year and yet hundreds of lives are still being altered, still being destroyed—and none more so than Sam Winchester's.

Sam doesn't think there will ever come a day when the effects of the Lebanon bombing don't find some way to ruin his life.

As the sound of sirens fills the air, Sam sighs and closes his eyes, resigning himself to his fate.


	7. Chapter 7

When Sam wakes, it's images of an angel with shining red eyes that chase him out of unconsciousness. It takes Sam a minute to remember where he is, the events of the past several days obscured by a haze of medication and pain that tingles through his body with every dull thud of his heartbeat. Only after Sam has shaken off the residual feeling of a cold breath against the back of his neck does he recall with any amount of clarity the events of the previous night, and the pain that up until that point was a quiet, warm kind of discomfort flares suddenly into a fire of passion and anger and a heat that burns away the last remnants of his nightmare.

The biting cold of Lucifer's soul vanishes, leaving behind only the heat of the red-walled room that works in tandem with the abrasive heat coming off of every one of the bruises that litter Sam's body, and with each pain-filled breath, Sam is forced to remember another punch, another kick, another snap of something inside his chest or his face or his arm.

It comes with little surprise to discover that opening his eyes—and particularly the left one—is extremely difficult, their weight far too heavy for Sam to conquer, injured as he is. But as more and more memories escape the fog of his mind, a sense of urgency builds, and so Sam disregards the pain he feels and forces his eyelids open, only to shut them immediately with a groan when the bright lights and sterile environment of what can only be a hospital room send daggers through his blurry vision and straight into the center of his bruised brain.

On the second attempt, Sam is far more successful, prepared for the onslaught of light that stands at a stark contrast to the dark atmosphere of his nightmares and of the alley where he was surely found unconscious, beaten within an inch of his life and sagging against a wall—similarly, he assumes, to how the tattooed man was discovered six or even seven days ago now. Sam wonders if the police saw a connection between the two instances, if the battered bodies of a gang leader and a wanted terrorist found in alleys in Hell's Kitchen were seen as evidence of a killer out for revenge or perhaps even two new victims of the Judge.

It's a thought that Sam disregards just as quickly because the police have just caught the world's most notorious killer, why would they spare any thought toward the circumstances in which they found him? Even Red will likely disappear without a passing glance, his status as the man who gave Sam Winchester to the police far outweighing any of the damage he may have dealt to Sam in the process.

"Welcome back, Mr. Winchester." A vaguely familiar voice breaks through the drug and concussion-induced haze surrounding Sam's mind, the venom with which he speaks Sam's name sending a jolt of unwarranted fear through Sam's heart before he's even fully processed the words. Sam blinks slowly, looking to the door of his room and finding Detective Brett Mahoney standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and the look of pure anger on his face reminiscent of the expression he wore the first time the two met—back when Mahoney was trying to arrest Darkside rather than Sam Winchester. On that first occasion, Sam was saved by intervention from Daredevil and Foggy Nelson. This time, not even God himself could rescue Sam from his fate—not that Sam would ever expect the man in question to come when he called.

"Hi," Sam says, his voice low and scratchy and his tongue thick in his mouth. There's a cup of ice on the table next to Sam's head and he shifts his right hand to grasp it only to find that his wrist is secured to the railing of his bed by a thin band of metal locked tightly around it. A quick survey of his body finds no similar restriction around Sam's left wrist, if only because his left arm is currently secured to his chest by a dark blue sling that obscures the majority of the black brace holding his elbow at a right angle.

"Samuel Winchester, you're under arrest for the use of a weapon of mass destruction in a public place, resulting in the deaths of 52 people." Detective Mahoney says without prelude, nodding to the handcuff around Sam's right wrist. "You will remain here with guards posted outside your door until the doctors see fit to have you released, at which point you will remain in police custody until your trial." Sam simply nods—it's not like there's anything he can say to that even if he thought he could speak—and swallows convulsively, all too aware of the dryness of his throat. Detective Mahoney has made no attempt to call any nurses or doctors to the room now that Sam is awake, and there's no doubt in Sam's mind that that oversight was intentional on the part of the officer. Sam expected no kindness from anyone who knew his name and not his story and, despite Detective Mahoney's relationship with the vigilantes of Manhattan, there's no doubt in Sam's mind that Mahoney's willingness to bend the rules stops with Daredevil and Darkside—at least, in a positive manner.

The two men stare wordlessly at each other for a good minute or so, Sam incapable and Mahoney unwilling to break the uncomfortable silence that's settled over them. Hatred is rolling off of Mahoney in waves so powerful that Sam can almost feel them crashing over him, constricting his chest and bringing tears to his eyes. The heavy thrum of pain tingles in Sam's fingertips as whatever drugs he's been on start to wear off—although whether the timing of that in relation to Sam's waking and Mahoney's presence is a coincidence or an intentional maneuver on Mahoney's part he couldn't say. Mahoney doesn't appear to be intent on interrogating Sam, and so the reason for his continued presence in the hospital room isn't made clear until the door opens once again and a man in dark red glasses steps through, white cane tapping lightly on the tile floor of the hospital room.

Mahoney steps to the side without a word as Matt Murdock enters the hospital room with Foggy Nelson on his tail. The former takes a seat at Sam's left, grim-faced, while the latter offers Mahoney a brown paper bag and a promise of a more expensive thanks before shooing the detective out of the room. Sam almost expects Mahoney to refuse, his inference based simply on the ever-present rage in the man's eyes, but Mahoney simply fixes Sam with a glare that makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise before turning and stalking out of the room, allowing the door to slam shut behind him with a note of finality that sets Sam more on edge than any parting words the detective possibly could have given.

"Sam," Matt says in a questioning tone, leaning his cane against the side of his chair as Foggy heads for the foot of Sam's bed, gripping the railing tightly and surveying Sam's physical state. While the blond lawyer is occupied with Sam's physical injuries, Sam assumes his partner is looking for mental ones, the eyes hidden behind that pane of opaque red glass unseeing but the mind behind them capable of seeing directly into Sam's soul.

The presence of the two lawyers is no small comfort to Sam, but it's an unwelcome one. Whatever happens from here on out is a direct result of decisions that Sam made, and therefore Matt and Foggy should have no part in it.

"Matt." Sam croaks in reply to his blind friend's venture, the corner of his mouth turning up when Matt reaches out and grabs the cup of ice on the side table, his eyes never leaving a point just above Sam's chest as he pulls a single ice chip out of the plastic cup and presses it to Sam's lips. Sam swallows the ice with some difficulty and smiles, swallowing a couple more pieces before nodding to Matt, who sets the cup back down on the table. "Hey," Sam says, voice much clearer now that his throat has been soothed somewhat by the ice.

"Karen called me last night in a fit of worry," Matt informs Sam, his eyebrows furrowing as he recalls the incident. "She said that she was speaking to you on the phone when the line suddenly went dead. What happened?"

"Remember the guy I beat up last week?" Sam asks and Matt nods, lips pressing into a thin line. "Apparently he's the leader of some gang in New York. His second-in-command and a few buddies attacked me last night." Sam's injuries throb with every word, with every breath, and while he still has yet to see a doctor, much less receive an official list of his injuries, he knows very well that this is not something he'll be recovering from in a few short hours.

At least Sam won't have anything on his schedule for the next few years—and probably the rest of his life.

"When you were discovered, you were only wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants," Matt says. "Did they take your mask and jacket?"

"I wasn't wearing them," Sam admits. "I don't know how, but they knew that I was him." He doesn't want to elaborate in case anyone else is listening in, but he knows that his point has gotten through to the lawyers when Foggy runs a hand through his hair and Matt's frown deepens considerably.

"That's... interesting." The blind lawyer comments, obviously intrigued by the series of events that lead to Sam being admitted to the hospital under his own name with a handcuff around his wrist and a police presence outside his door. "Do you know how they knew?"

"No idea," Sam says truthfully, shaking his head to punctuate his words. "Matt, why are you here?"

"We're your lawyers," Foggy says matter-of-factly and Sam shakes his head again, lifting his right hand as high up as he can in a gesture of pleading.

"You can't risk your safety like that." Sam insists. "I'm the most hated man in America right now, representing me in court will put a massive target on your backs."

"We specialize in difficult cases," Matt says with a grin.

"We know that you're innocent," Foggy adds, releasing his hold on the bed rail and crossing his arms. "We can't in good conscience let you go to prison for a crime you didn't commit."

"But there's absolutely no proof that I didn't bomb Lebanon," Sam points out, prepared to argue against his own innocence if it will keep his friends from getting themselves involved. "The only thing going for me is my own account of what happened and, considering the number of head injuries I've suffered since then and the fact that I still don't remember everything that happened, even if my memory of events would be taken as the truth, it wouldn't be usable in court. I'm pretty much the opposite of a reliable witness."

"Then we find hard evidence," Matt says determinedly, straightening in his seat in a show of confidence that Sam desperately wishes he had.

"Where?" Sam asks. "Any evidence of my innocence would still be buried in the rubble of that Biggerson's. Even if there was somehow irrefutable evidence that I didn't plant the bomb, it had to have been destroyed in the explosion."

"Well, maybe it wasn't," Matt says. "I know you've been dealt the ultimate crappy hand, Sam, but right now you need to focus on healing and let us handle the rest."

"There's nothing you can do," Sam argues, voice rising. "The only way I'm getting out of this alive is by maybe taking a plea deal. Dean was given a generous offer by the state of Kansas when they went with a life sentence rather than the death penalty. There's no way I'll be that lucky."

"Well, you could always tell the truth about what you've been doing in Manhattan as of late." Foggy suggests.

"And, what, call Daredevil to the stand as a character witness?" Sam asks, shaking his head. "No way. Darkside is the only good part of me that's left. I won't let him be dragged through the mud to save Sam Winchester's name." Sam's head is spinning and not much is certain right now, but that particular decision is entirely clear in his mind. Sam Winchester's past will not destroy Darkside's future.

Sam doesn't even let himself think about how unlikely it is that said future will even exist.

"So that's it? You're just giving up?" Matt asks incredulously. Sam shakes his head, handcuff rattling as he waves his hand in Foggy's direction.

"I couldn't do that, you wouldn't let me," Sam says. "I'm just being realistic. I know that you aren't going to find evidence to clear my name before my case goes to trial, and we all know that it won't take long for them to find me guilty on all charges. I've spent a lot of time in places a lot worse than a federal prison, Matt, I can survive a few years. If you're distracted by trying to defend me in court, you can't be looking for evidence to prove my innocence."

"You want us to let you go to prison, and then appeal the decision." Foggy realizes.

"I want you to do what you have to in order to save me," Sam says. "But the first step is letting me go."

"The prosecution will probably try to offer you a deal in order to wrap this up quickly and gloss over the fact that the FBI made a mistake when they declared you dead," Matt says seriously. "You can't take it."

"Why?" Sam asks, frowning.

"Because if you plead guilty, we'll never be able to get you out again," Foggy says. "Dean argued his innocence for months, still maintains that he wasn't responsible despite his sentencing. That's an advantage for us in the long run. Innocent people are confident in their innocence."

"Right," Sam says, nodding. "So, what happens next?" Matt smiles, standing and grabbing his cane.

"What happens next?" He repeats. "Why, only the trial of the century."

"The second one in a year." Foggy adds with a smirk.

"The trial of Sam Winchester," Sam says. "This was never going to be avoided, you know. No matter how hard I tried to stay hidden, I was going to be found out eventually." He's not entirely sure whether he's trying to reassure the two lawyers or himself, but the sentiment is still there.

"Your judgement day will soon be upon us, Sam," Matt says. "I sincerely hope that when it arrives, we'll be ready for it."


	8. Chapter 8

Sam exits the courtroom the same way that he entered—in handcuffs.

He was explicitly denied bail, the judge quick to take the prosecution's side—which is unsurprising—and arguing that Sam, having successfully evaded arrest for almost a full year—and many times in the past long before the Lebanon bombing was on anyone's mind—poses a massive flight risk and therefore cannot be allowed even a modicum of freedom until the beginning of his trial in about a month.

What bugs Sam isn't that he was denied bail—that was pretty much what he was expecting, after all—but because it was on account of his being a  _flight risk_. Sam huffs out half of a laugh just thinking about it. A flight risk? He's confined to a wheelchair for at least the next few weeks while his ribs and left arm—he has four broken ribs and his left elbow was severely sprained—heal, at which point he'll be able to move to crutches. No one has thought to mention getting Sam a new prosthetic leg—the one Red and his friends broke in the alley disappeared sometime between when Sam passed out in the alley and when he woke up in the hospital—so even when he gets out of the wheelchair, he won't exactly be able to get anywhere very fast. And thanks to a relatively serious concussion Sam sustained at some point during his beating, his powers are on the fritz, leaving him unable to so much as see souls, much less teleport to freedom—not that that form of escape was really a feasible option to begin with on account of the round-the-clock surveillance Sam has been under since Red called in his anonymous tip three days ago, and will likely continue to endure up until the end of his trial.

Some part of Sam berates him, tells him to do what Winchesters do best and run for the hills, leave Manhattan behind and start over somewhere else, somewhere  _safe_. But another, more insistent part of him says no, for the same reason it's told him all this time not to break Dean out of prison.

This second chance that Sam has been given—or  _had_ , he supposes, seeing as the freedom he enjoyed is now gone—is a chance for him to make things right, to do things the right way and to maybe, just maybe fix what went wrong in the past. It's a new beginning, a new life, a step back from the world of hunters who operate outside of the law and a chance to finally do things the way Sam has always wanted to.

Dean's voice argues against this decision at the back of Sam's mind, calls him a hypocrite—Darkside, after all, isn't exactly using the most legal of methods to apprehend criminals and it's been about thirteen years since Sam last paid his taxes—but Sam silences the screams of his brother with relative ease, convincing himself that he'll get there eventually, that one day he'll reach the point of complete morality that he's been striving toward. Sam isn't entirely sure if he's trying to convince the rest of the world or himself, but he doesn't really think he's very successful in either venture.

And yet, wasn't that the very reason Sam went to see the Avengers in the first place? The reason he risked everything to visit their tower?

Recognition from the Avengers—known worldwide as the poster children for government-approved crime fighting—is the first step in operating alongside the law as a hero rather than outside of it as a vigilante. It was Sam's first step in legitimizing Darkside, in making his alter ego a superhero respected by the world and capable of saving lives without worrying about the consequences he may face as a result.

It's too bad, really, that Sam will never reach step two.

Sam is escorted out of the courtroom by a uniformed police officer who is pushing his wheelchair—with one arm strapped to his chest and the other handcuffed to the armrest, Sam can't really do much for himself, which is another strike against the judge's reasoning that he's a flight risk—and Matt and Foggy are quick to join him as soon as he passes through the door, flanking him on either side and creating a barrier between Sam and the numerous reporters who are clamoring to get a statement from the dead-and-alive-again terrorist who has supposedly been hiding in their midst for an unknown amount of time.

No one knows how long Sam Winchester has been hiding out in Manhattan—Matt made the choice to withhold that particular information and Sam wholeheartedly agrees with his decision—but the general concensus, thanks partially to an article written by one Karen Page, is that he arrived in town not long before the incident that led to his arrest, perhaps drawn in by the Judge or by the news of his brother's sentencing.

With some difficulty, Matt and Foggy are able to convince the officer accompanying them to release Sam into their custody for a short period of time, and the lawyers are quick to shuttle their client into a conference room for a brief discussion before Sam is forced to return to the NYPD precinct, where he'll be sleeping in a holding cell until he can be transferred to whichever jail will house him for the duration of his trial.

With Sam placed at the end of a long conference table, Matt and Foggy seated in the chairs directly to his left and right, and their police escort stationed on the other side of the closed door, the two lawyers waste no time getting to work, each pulling out their cell phones and making pre-planned calls that will hopefully help Sam's case in the long run.

Foggy's call to Jessica Jones is short and sweet—she was informed of the plan in advance and, thanks to her pessimistic nature, likely put her part into motion almost immediately without waiting to find out that Sam's bail request was denied—but Matt's call to Danny Rand takes a bit more time as he's forced to repeatedly assure the billionaire vigilante that Sam won't need any of his money after all, as there's no bail to pay and nothing else to spend it on. Danny expresses his condolences and promises to inform Claire Temple and Luke Cage of the judge's decision and so Matt skips them, moving instead straight to the final call on his to-do list, and likely the most difficult: Karen Page.

The blonde insisted on being as involved as possible in Matt and Foggy's twelve-step plan to keep Sam out of prison—there aren't actually twelve steps, or really any clearly defined steps at all, but Foggy and Matt seemed amused by the reference to recovering alcoholics first brought up by Jessica and so the moniker stuck—swearing up and down that she would help in whatever way she could and going so far as to write up several stories for publication in the Daily Bulletin that humanize Sam rather than demonizing him—not that anyone, Karen included, believes for a second that they'll ever make it to print.

"Hello?" Karen's voice enters the air after Mac places the call and sets his phone down on the desk, putting it on speaker for the benefit of his partner—whose own list of calls has long since been completed—and client.

"Karen," Matt says simply, the loaded tone of that one word enough to concisely inform the blonde of the decision made by a judge about fifteen minutes earlier.

"Oh, no, Sam, I'm so sorry," Karen says, the sympathy in her voice reassuring to Sam but doing absolutely nothing to assuage the worry and uncertainty he's currently feeling in regards to his future. Being denied bail is the first of many losses Sam is expecting to sustain over the course of this trial, a very worrying first failure on a path that is already destined to be marked with overwhelming defeat.

And yet, that somehow isn't the worst thing that the judge said today.

"The judge also listed the official charges against Sam," Foggy speaks up and Sam hears Karen draw in a worried breath. "52 counts of first-degree murder. Nothing about the bomb, nothing about the survivors, not even terrorism. Just murder." Foggy and Matt were both angered by this revelation but Sam is generally just confused. Dean was charged with everything the court could think to throw at him, so why only charge Sam with murder? Sure, 52 counts of murder of the first degree are more than enough to give Sam the death penalty thirty times over, but why not add on the rest and make absolutely certain that he never reaches the ripe old age of 40?

"Why only charge him with the deaths?" Karen voices the same question rattling around in Sam's mind.

"We think that the prosecution wasn't happy when Dean was allowed to live," Matt explains, exchanging a worried look with his partner. "Dean can't be charged any further because there are no more charges, so they've lost their chance to sentence him to death. If these counts against Sam somehow end with the same results, the state will charge Sam with the rest and hope that it sticks a little better."

"Strike hard and fast, and if you miss, strike again." Foggy summarizes. "It's a good strategy, unfortunately. Means that even if we win, we'll probably still lose."

"Well, it's not like we're going to win," Sam comments dryly, shaking his head. "The deck is stacked overwhelmingly against me."

"We just need proof," Karen says, her conviction reassuring but likely misplaced. "We can find it, I know we can." Sam wishes he shared her confidence.

"If it even exists," Sam replies doubtfully. There's no reason to believe that there was ever any evidence of Sam's innocence, so why waste time looking? It would take a genuine miracle to get Sam out of this mess, and he used up all of his miracles a long time ago.

"Thanks for telling me, guys," Karen says with a heavy sigh. "Call me if anything else happens."

"Bye, Karen." Matt and Foggy chorus together and Matt ends the call, climbing to his feet.

"Wait," Sam says, lifting his right hand as high as the handcuffs will allow in order to stay the motion of his lawyers. They weren't the only ones with a to-do list. "I want to call Jody. Tell her the news myself before she sees it on Channel 5."

"Of course," Matt says, passing his phone to Sam—Sam's own ruined phone is likely to be replaced just as soon as his prosthetic leg is—and sitting back down. Sam dials the number he long ago memorized and Foggy helps him sandwich the phone between his shoulder and his chin. Sam takes a deep and somewhat painful breath—on account of his battered ribs—in a weak attempt to steady himself.

"Hey, Jody," Sam says as soon as the line stops ringing, hoping to get the first word in.

"Sam! How'd it go?" Jody asks hesitantly and Sam just sighs, closing his eyes.

"52 counts of first-degree murder, no bail." He says monotonously, shoving his emotions down as far as he can and grimacing nonetheless when Jody chokes back a sob at the news.

"I'm so sorry, Sam." She says, as if it's her fault that Sam got himself caught, as if it's her fault that demons turned Lebanon to dust for reasons still unknown to Sam.

"I'll be okay," Sam says, trying to convince himself just as much as he's trying to convince Jody. He wasn't lying when he told Matt he could handle a few years in prison. He could probably handle a lifetime in prison—it couldn't possibly begin to compare to what he endured in the Cage with Lucifer. But that was when he thought he'd be going to prison healthy, uninjured, with a functional leg. Going inside severely impaired, in a wheelchair, unable to walk much less defend himself? Sam won't last a week—not that he'll ever admit that to Matt or to anyone else for that matter. The last thing Sam wants is to pile on to everyone's worry.

"You just stay safe, alright?" Jody asks. "Promise me you'll stay safe."

"I'll try, Jody," Sam promises what he can, internally swearing on his life, on his brother's life, that he'll do whatever he can to survive this but fully aware that what Jody is asking just might not be possible. "I promise that I'll try."

"That's all you can do, Sam," Jody admits solemnly. "But hey," she adds, tone brightening unexpectedly, "at least now you can talk to Dean again." Sam looks up at this, meeting Matt's eyes as the realization suddenly strikes him that Jody is  _right_.

Now that the world knows that Sam is alive, he can see his brother again. They'll probably both be in handcuffs, talking through a glass wall with guards studying their every move, but they'll be able to  _talk_. To  _see_  each other again.

It's the only upside to this entire ordeal, but it's a pretty good one.

"Bye, Jody," Sam says distractedly. "I'll call as soon as I can."

"I look forward to it, Sam." Jody ends the call with a short farewell and Sam allows the phone to slip from its place against his shoulder, watching impassively as it hits the floor and bounces under the table. While Foggy retrieves the device, Sam turns his attention to Matt.

"Is it true?" He asks with renewed hope in his voice. "Will I be able to see Dean?"

"We'll have to see what we can do, but it's certainly possible," Matt says thoughtfully. "We'll likely have to start small, maybe with a phone call on a monitored line. You're both major security risks in the eyes of the state, and they won't want you planning another attack or anything like that, but I'm sure we'll be able to find some way to put you in contact with your brother." Just knowing that he'll be able to speak to Dean again—hell, just knowing that Dean now knows he's  _alive_ —lifts a massive weight off of Sam's shoulders, but the darkness that's been lurking at the back of his mind only gains strength as it surges forward into the forefront of Sam's consciousness.

"Darkside," Sam says simply, unable to voice his fears any more eloquently than that. It's the flipside of the coin, the paradox that Sam has been worried about ever since he created his vigilante alter ego. Sam Winchester is back in the public eye, back to being the monster the world has always thought he was. And with Sam Winchester in handcuffs, too injured to conjure up even a flash of yellow eyes, Darkside can't go out at night and protect the streets of Hell's Kitchen.

Darkside disappearing the very same night that Sam Winchester was arrested creates a connection between the two separate entities in Sam's life that he can't afford for anyone to recognize. The desperation Sam felt before returns with a vengeance and Sam turns back to Matt, this time with another impossible task on the tip of his tongue.

"Can you go out as Darkside?" Sam asks, tone edging into pleading. "It's only a matter of time before someone realizes that he disappeared the same night I was arrested." Matt cocks his head to one side, considering Sam's request, and then he frowns deeply.

"I don't know if I can, Sam." The blind man admits, pointing to his eyes, which are currently obscured by his dark red glasses. "Darkside and Daredevil are two very different figures. Daredevil uses every sense but his eyes, but Darkside relies on his. They're his calling card, his most recognizable feature. I may be able to fake your style, but I can't fake your eyes."

"Get Melvin to make you some yellow contacts," Sam begs. Darkside is the only good part of him—even if Sam can never be that person again, he can't let him be ruined by the mistakes of Sam Winchester. "Please, Matt, just put on the mask and stop some guy with a gun from stealing a little old lady's purse every once in a while for the next couple of months, just until enough time has passed that Darkside's disappearance won't be connected to my arrest."

"I'll see what I can do, Sam," Matt says hesitantly, obviously still unsure about the whole charade.

"That's all I ask," Sam says with a halfhearted smile. Before anyone can say another word, a sharp knock on the door has Foggy rising and opening it to reveal the police officer posted outside, who appears to have brought a friend.

"Time's up." The second cop says gruffly, pushing past Foggy and grabbing the handles of Sam's wheelchair. "Time for you to get back to where you belong." Sam nods impassively, waving goodbye to Matt and Foggy as he's pushed out of the room and back into the horde of reporters and cameramen. Flashing lights and microphones are shoved into Sam's face as the two police officers fight their way through the crowd, stopping only to yell at people to get out of their damn way or they'll have them arrested. Sam smirks at this, wondering which of the pretty reporters in pencil skirts will end up in the holding cell next to his.

When they finally make it through the sea of people, Sam is uncuffed from his chair and helped not-so-gently into the back of a police cruiser parked on the curb just outside the doors of the courthouse. One of the cops sits down beside him and the other climbs into the driver's seat, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.

Sam watches the crowd outside the courthouse as the cruiser drives away, scanning the reporters and cameramen—and pausing with a frown when he meets the gaze of a tall African American man wearing an unsettling grin. The man's smile widens when he sees that he's caught Sam's eye, and he pushes back the edge of his long coat to reveal the black rifle hidden beneath.

Before Sam can even fully process what he's seen, the cruiser turns a corner and the man and his gun are obscured from Sam's view, that unsettling grin etched permanently into Sam's mind.


	9. Chapter 9

On the night immediately following his first day in court, Sam dreams of Lebanon.

The blurry, unfocused images that have haunted him for months suddenly sharpen that night, details he never recalled before coming to light thanks to the trial, or his constant thoughts of his brother, or maybe even the fact that the one year anniversary of the event is fast approaching.

Sam closes his eyes that night on the cot in his cell at the police precinct and when he opens them again he's standing on the streets of Lebanon, his feet moving of their own accord and taking him down the path he traveled on October 5, 2017. It's ironic, Sam supposes as his hands move to shove his brother off of the sidewalk in retaliation for a teasing comment, that he's unable to influence the events that he's reliving, that he's forced to watch what happened to him that day as a spectator, trapped inside his own mind. It's eerily similar to possession, a strange, discomforting parallel to the last time his life was so quickly and utterly changed by a single event. Then, too, Sam was made to watch from the back seat of his own mind, unable to change what happened until it was far too late to do a thing about it.

Sam's life has never truly been his to control.

Sam follows his brother into a Biggerson's and relives in technicolor the few complete memories of this day that he's recovered. He sees once again the moment he discovered the massive bomb— _every inch of the freezer, every nook and cranny is stuffed with C4_ —and the frantic journey he made down the streets of Lebanon, trying and failing to warn the innocent civilians who died that day— _he yells to some people on the sidewalk: "Run! Get out of here! Evacuate!"_ —and he watches with his heart in his throat as that horrifying moment comes to pass once again when the heat washed over him, and he relives all over again the feeling deep in his bones when he realized that he wasn't going to be making it out of this one unscathed.

He remembers the sickening crunch his skull made when the back of his head connected with a wooden telephone pole, remembers the way his vision whited out and then went black just as quickly. He remembers waking with a start to a sharp pain in the back of his head that paled in comparison to the burning, searing fire consuming his lower right leg. He remembers looking down, remembers seeing nothing but a puddle of blood beyond the tattered, bloody remains of his knee. He remembers passing out once again, not from the pain or from the major concussion he likely suffered but from the shock of seeing the damage dealt both to him and to the city around him by the bomb.

Sam stays in that moment just before he fell unconscious for a long time, stares in a combination of awe and horror at the flattened city. The memory of the city lasts only a split second but when Sam takes the time to truly observe it stretches into hours, into days, each detail he notices more painful than the one before it. He starts at the body of the little girl hanging limply out of a busted dashboard window and moves from there, sees buildings collapsed in the dust, bodies littering the streets, blood streaking the sides of overturned cars whose alarms are blaring. 

Sam sees a hand lying still, poking out from beneath a pile of bricks and wood that he thinks was once a bank. He sees one half of a brown hiking boot that likely belonged to a young child, far too small but imposing nonetheless. He sees a firefighter's jacket torn and bloodied and smoldering lightly in the smoking remains of a truck a block down the debris-filled street. Any farther than that, and Sam's view is obscured by a gray haze he originally assumes is a product of his own mind but realizes upon further inspection is actually a cloud of ash cloaking the city of Lebanon.

The wail of sirens presses in from every direction and helicopters whir overhead but the little stretch of ruined street where Sam lies is quiet in that anxious way that a horror movie goes silent just before the big scare. Sam doesn't know what the big scare is, doesn't remember past this brief moment of tranquility, but he knows that whatever happened after this point is what led to the four months he spent with Asmodeus and his demons. This split second of peace is the calm before the storm.

Sam is looking up at the ash-gray sky when a face appears in front of his own wearing a wide, sinister smile and a pair of coal-black eyes.

Everything goes black, but it only lasts a moment before Sam is pulled roughly into consciousness and assaulted by another rush of memories, these somehow even worse than the last. Instead of the bright colors and smiling faces of Lebanon before the disaster, Sam sees the dark red walls of a too-familiar room and the swirling yellow eyes of his tormentor of four months. Unlike Lebanon, the memories of Sam's time with Asmodeus remain vague, flashes of pain and silver blades and needles dipped in red the only recollection Sam holds. The memories of Lebanon are clear but the memories of the demons are  _potent_ , the relative calm of the immediate aftermath of the bombing a stark contrast from the whirlwind of torture Sam endured in the months that followed.

Sam's memories of Lebanon are beginning to return in complete blocks of minutes at a time, but his memories of the demons are still relegated to simple flashes. They're both powerful in their own respect, both imprinted on Sam's mind in their own way. Today, at least, it's the memories of Lebanon that win out, and after his slideshow of torture at the hands of the demons, Sam is abruptly returned to the moment of impact back in the small town of Lebanon.

And so when Sam wakes with a jerk and a strangled cry, he can still taste the blood-soaked ash that once caked his lips.

Sam's chest heaves as he fights to free his mind from the tendrils of horrible memories that wrap themselves around his thoughts and refuse to let go. Desperate to center himself—and all-too-aware of the way that his senses are beginning to overload—Sam turns his attention away from his scattered thoughts and toward the room.

He's inside a small holding cell in the back room of an NYPD precinct, barely large enough to hold the cot on which he lies. There's another, empty cell opposite him and the rest of the room is bare, all gray stone walls and concrete floors. The only hints of color in the room are also the only sources of light: a faint green exit sign on the far wall illuminates most of the room, casting a glow across the room that makes everything seem just a little more sinister, and beside it the dim red glow of a digital clock blinks in and out of existence, no discernable pattern to the flickering light that periodically turns the green-tinged room a shade closer to brown. 

According to that clock, it's now 3:18 in the morning, and it's with a choked-off gasp that Sam realizes that when the clock struck midnight and the day changed, it officially became October 5th, 2018.

The bombing of Lebanon, Kansas took place one year ago today.

Sam doesn't expect for that simple concept to bring tears to his eyes, doesn't expect for a broken sob to escape his lips at the thought, but the memories he just relived are still fresh in his mind and it's just a little too real, a little too meaningful. Once the emotions tear free of the cage in Sam's mind where he tries so hard to keep them locked away, there's no holding them back.

It's been one year since Sam last spoke to his brother. 52 weeks since he last rode shotgun in the Impala. 365 days since he last had a life that wasn't haunted by a series of events he still barely remembers, the memories of the days leading up to one year ago today still trapped somewhere deep in his mind.

It's fitting, Sam will later suppose, that the next nightmare of his life should begin today, on this anniversary of the day his life truly ended and yet also the day his next life began. It's only fitting that at 3:18 on the morning of October 5, 2018, Sam should wake from the throes of a nightmare about Lebanon and find himself in the presence of another nightmare of the more human variety.

Distracted as he is by his sudden awareness of the date, the sinister anniversary, and his dreams, it takes Sam far too long to realize that he isn't alone in the back room of the police precinct. Sam doesn't see the other figure until after he hears the rattling of keys and the creaking of metal as the door to his cell swings slowly open. And even then he only sees a hulking figure standing in the doorway, the glint of a silver knife reflecting red and green light onto the walls of the room, and the shadow that crosses between Sam and the clock on the far wall. By then, it's far too late for Sam to do anything but watch.

The intruder is upon him in an instant, strong calloused hands wrapping around his throat and pulling him off of the cot by his neck only to slam him down again, hard. Sam's head bounces off of the metal bar at the back of his bed and stars burst across his vision. One hand disappears from Sam's throat but the other only tightens, crushing Sam's neck and cutting off his air, leaving him only able to weakly grasp at the hand slowly killing him with his own uninjured right hand. His left lifts as well once it becomes apparent that one hand isn't enough to fend off his attacker, but the man remedies that quickly, grabbing Sam's left hand and twisting it sharply.

A snap echoes through the empty room and Sam screams, his involuntary yell of pain choked off before it can fly from his mouth by the hand wrapped tightly around his throat. A handful of tears escape Sam's eyes at the sharp pain in his arm that's only compounded by the agony in his chest when his bruised ribs protest each gasping breath Sam manages to inhale.

"Please." Sam whispers, voice barely louder than a breath as his vision spins. The lights in the room suddenly turn on, bathing Sam and his attacker in white, and as Sam's vision adjusts to the sudden onslaught of light, his attacker curses angrily. When Sam's vision finally clears, his eyes immediately widen in disbelief. He  _knows_  who's attacking him.

It's the same man he saw outside the courthouse yesterday. The man with the gun.

The man, Sam suddenly realizes, who he likely already knows  _of_  for another reason entirely.

The hand around Sam's neck disappears and Sam draws in a single heavy breath before shouting at the top of his lungs: "Help!" The man—African American, Sam can now see clearly, with short, tightly coiled black hair and muscles that could probably put Luke's to shame—grows menacingly, slapping Sam hard across the face and effectively stopping him from calling out once again.

"You're going to pay for what you've done, Sam Winchester." The man says. "You will never hear the court's verdict. You'll be long dead by then."

"You're the Judge," Sam says matter-of-factly through gritted teeth and the man smiles down at him, pressing one hand into Sam's chest hard enough to make him wince. The sound of a commotion outside the door to the rest of the precinct reaches Sam's ears and the Judge's smile falters for a moment. He pulls his hand away from Sam's chest, exiting the cell and locking it before pocketing the key that allowed him access in the first place.

"And you've been sentenced to death." The Judge disappears through the back door without another word. Sam would laugh—that's kind of tacky for a parting death threat, he's certainly heard much better in the past—if it weren't for the fear that has his heart hammering in his chest. This is a police precinct, staffed 24/7 by cops, and yet the Judge successfully broke in, weaponless, and managed to attack Sam without anyone being the wiser until those lights came on.

If Sam isn't safe here, there's no doubt in his mind that the Judge will fulfill his parting promise.

The door finally opens and two officers rush in, eyes widening when they take in Sam's condition. Sam uses his right arm to push himself up into a seated position, hissing when the simple motion sends sharp shockwaves of pain through his battered ribs and broken arm. He leans against the cool concrete wall of the cell, cradling his injured arm against his chest and closing his eyes when his vision once again begins to spin, leaving him nauseous.

"Call 911." One of the officers orders the other and Sam hears the distinctive sound of the cell door being unlocked and opened once again. Sam forces his eyes open, watching with an unsteady gaze as the officer who spoke steps into the cell, his movements slow and hesitant.

"I'm not really in any condition to hurt you." Sam comments, his voice raw and filled with pain and his words accentuated by the coughing fit that he quickly descends into. The harsh coughs destroy Sam's throat and leave him dizzy and weak, and he sends a lopsided smile in the general direction of the cop as stars crowd his vision. "'M not gonna h'rt you," Sam says, noting distantly that his words are beginning to slur together. As the officer approaches slowly, a first aid kit clasped so tightly in his left hand that his knuckles are white, Sam becomes distinctly aware that he's on the verge of passing out.

Unwilling to risk falling over and injuring his head any further, Sam decides to risk moving once again. Shifting slowly so as to not scare the cop and get himself shot, Sam repositions himself, lying back down on the cot and closing his eyes.

"Mr. Winchester, I need you to open your eyes." The cop says in a flat but somewhat worried tone—although for all Sam knows, he's just worried about himself. When Sam doesn't reply, the officer's voice rises as he repeats himself. "Mr. Winchester, open your eyes." A hand touches Sam's chest and he flinches, looking up into the eyes of the officer now standing above him, genuine concern written across his face. The name on his chest is 'Danvers', and Sam commits it to memory as the cop sets the first aid kit down and holds up an ice pack. Sam smiles weakly, nodding once then shutting his eyes once again.

Darkness falls over Sam and suddenly Dean is standing in front of him, a wide grin on his face that looks just a little bit off for a reason that Sam can't quite figure out. It isn't until Sam's attention turns toward his brother's normally piercing green eyes that he realizes the problem—the normally expressive irises are emotionless, full of the same coldness Sam is familiar with seeing in the eyes of angels.

And they're also a bright, shining blue.

"Sorry," Sam mumbles distractedly to his not-quite-brother as not-quite-Dean turns around and disappears into the mist. A voice in Sam's head that sounds a lot like his brother tells him to follow Dean, to grab him and hold him tight and never let him go. Another more insistent voice nags at the back of Sam's mind but he ignores the faraway calls as he follows his brother into the unknown, the echoes at his back quickly fading away into nothing at all.

_"Mr. Winchester! Mr. Winchester!! Mr. Win..."_


	10. Chapter 10

For the second time in less than a week, Sam wakes up in the hospital. Several things about his second visit are the same as the first—the handcuff secured snugly around his right wrist, the police presence stationed right outside the door, and even Detective Mahoney waiting for him at the foot of his bed—but before long Sam discovers that a few things are different, too.

It doesn't take more than a few minutes for Sam to realize that rather than interrogating him, this time Mahoney is simply questioning him. All of the questions revolve around the subject of the man who attacked him last night in the cell, and he's treated a little less like a felon and a little more like a victim—Mahoney even allows a doctor and a nurse to come into the room in the middle of his series of questions and top off Sam's pain meds.

Sam answers all of Mahoney's questions to the best of his abilities, relates the man's stature and skin color and hair and anything else he can think of, but when the time comes for him to describe the man's face he's surprised to find himself faced with a blurry, fog-shrouded question mark instead of the distinctive facial features he knows he must have seen. Sam remembers the threat made against his life as clearly as if it happened only seconds before, is quick to share the man's confirmation that he was the Judge word-for-word, but he can't for the life of him recall exactly what the man looked like—nothing, from the shape of his nose to the color of his eyes, is clear in the muddled mess that is Sam's mind.

After Mahoney finishes his questions and leaves the room, Sam only remains in the hospital for about half an hour before he's released back into police custody and escorted by no less than four officers  _and_  Detective Mahoney back to the precinct where he was attacked, and promptly shuttled directly into an interrogation room. Sam's right wrist is secured to the table and then he's left alone to tap his fingers on the cool metal table and examine the new black fiberglass cast that encases his left arm from his palm to just below his elbow—a strikingly similar design to the cast he was forced to wear over a decade ago after breaking his wrist.

This break was—according to a surprisingly kind doctor who spoke to him in the short period of time between the end of Mahoney's questioning in the hospital and Sam's trip back to the precinct—relatively minor, more of a fracture than a break, a few inches above his wrist, and likely to be mostly healed within a few weeks. The head injury Sam received when the Judge slammed his head into the bed rail was minor and his ribs weren't injured further so much as aggravated, and in the professional opinion of the doctor, Sam should be out of his wheelchair as soon as the cast on his arm is removed, at which point he'll move to crutches—where he'll remain either until he receives a new prosthetic leg or until he dies, whichever one comes first.

Basically, the majority of the damage that was dealt to Sam by his second attacker in a week was superficial, new bruises over his ribs to replace the barely-healed ones caused by Red and his friends and a fresh set of roundish bruises in a ring around his neck that turned a nice shade of brownish-purple overnight and are by far the most obvious evidence of the attack—other than the cast, of course. Sam's breathing isn't hampered any more by the slight swelling of his throat than it already was by his bruised ribs, so he decides to count this experience as a win overall—other than a broken arm and some fresh bruises, all Sam really got out of his attack was confirmation that the Judge wants him dead, which is useful information because now Sam knows that he has to watch his back.

Having someone trying to kill him is actually kind of refreshing, if Sam is being honest with himself—in a situation filled with several unusual and uncomfortable affairs, something familiar that Sam actually knows how to deal with is more than a little helpful in keeping his head in the game.

Two hours after Sam was left in the interrogation room, the door finally opens and admits only one person: Matt Murdock, who is dressed in a nice suit with a perfectly-knotted navy blue tie that contrasts nicely with his usual dark red glasses. It's one of Matt's nicest outfits, one of the ones that he reserves for funerals and court appearances, and it doesn't take long for Sam to figure out that his lawyers—or at least, one of them—went to court without him sometime today.

That in of itself is interesting, but what's far more interesting to Sam's hair than Matt's clothes is his hair, which despite the obvious interference of a comb and some hairspray still holds the characteristic shape it takes on after an hour or so beneath Daredevil's mask. It could, of course, be from Matt's activities the night before, except that by this hour his hair has usually returned to its typical fluffy state—which suggests that Daredevil was out on the town much later than usual.

"After we received word of the attack, Foggy and I requested an audience with the judge who refused your bail," Matt says flatly as he heads for the back corner of the room, standing ramrod straight and gripping the top of his cane tightly with both hands. It's a position he usually takes only when there's one chair opposite Sam and Foggy is occupying it, but Foggy isn't here right now—and likely isn't planning on making an appearance, giving that the two lawyers rarely arrive separately—so Sam can't help but wonder who else Matt is expecting to join them.

"And?" Sam urges once it becomes clear that Matt isn't planning to continue on with his explanation. The lawyer glances in Sam's general direction and frowns, obviously distracted.

"And because it was clear that the local police couldn't properly protect you, the judge has agreed to release you into protective custody." Matt continues somewhat hesitantly, his words dragging noticeably as if he isn't entirely comfortable with the prospect.

"So what, I get to go to prison without worrying about being beaten up in the yard?" Sam asks, recalling his last encounter with prison yard bullies and wincing automatically at the phantom pains the memory dredges up—his words were intentionally sarcastic, but now that he thinks about it, protective custody probably wouldn't be half bad considering the alternative.

"Not exactly," Matt says, a half-grin appearing on his face as he cocks his head to one side. "Someone else has actually stepped in and offered to take custody of you until your trial."

"Is that even legal? It sounds kinda creepy if I'm being honest." Sam comments, forehead furrowing. "And how exactly is leaving the custody of the police supposed to make me  _safer_?" He adds after a second just as the door to the interrogation room opens once again.

"You know, the police are pretty good at their job and all, but I think we're a little bit better." A new but familiar voice says, and Sam turns away from Matt to see that another man has stepped into the room and locked the door behind himself. Sunglasses are pulled away from a face and tucked into a jacket pocket and Sam just watches in disbelief—and maybe gawks a little—as Tony fucking Stark sits down in the cold metal chair across the table from Sam, leaning back and lacing his fingers together behind his head as he kicks his legs up and crosses his ankles a few inches away from the bar that Sam's wrist is handcuffed to.

"What?" Sam asks, unable to string together a full thought on account of the billionaire who has just walked into his interrogation room.

"The Avengers have offered to take you in, Sam," Matt explains with a slight smile. "They'll act as your supervisors and personal security team, keeping tabs on you and keeping you safe from the Judge for the duration of your trial."

"Under the condition, of course, that you explain to me right now why it is that you're innocent," Stark adds with a smirk. Sam glances at Matt and swallows hard, all sense of fanboy-ish surprise at seeing one of his heroes walk into the room gone in an instant as the gravity of the situation settles back in.

"I promise, I didn't set that bomb," Sam says, suddenly desperate to convince the Avengers, the world's mightiest heroes, of his innocence. Desperate to make someone,  _anyone_  understand what really happened that day, even if he doesn't truly know himself. If Tony Stark is willing to listen to Sam's side of the story, he's damn well going to tell it—or at least, most of it. 

After all, what does he have left to lose?

"I saw it in that Biggerson's and I told Dean." Sam continues when Stark frowns, obviously unimpressed with his brief plea of innocence. "I tried to stop it, but there wasn't enough time for us to do anything but run. I tried to warn people, tried to get them out, but I  _couldn't_ stop it. I just... I just couldn't stop it." Sam's voice breaks and he clamps his jaw shut, face growing red as he stares at his right hand and curls his fingers into a fist.

He can't prove his innocence, not really. Not to the Avengers, not to Tony Stark, not even to himself. What he's just told Stark isn't enough to convince anyone that he wasn't responsible, but it's all Sam has to offer. It's all he can remember of that day.

"I believe you," Stark says, and Sam's head shoots up as his eyes widen. The billionaire is still wearing that trademark smirk of his but his eyes hold some emotion that's a little bit more genuine than what was there before. "Wanna know why?" Stark continues and Sam nods hesitantly, head spinning. He's in a police interrogation room, handcuffed to a table, charged with the murders of 52 innocent people. His brother is already serving a life sentence for the same crime. His 'evidence' of his innocence is just his own word, and even  _Sam_  wouldn't trust that entirely. Why on earth would anyone ever believe him?

"Why?" Sam asks weakly. Beside him, Matt looks a little bit confused but also somewhat disinterested, almost as if this is what he was expecting. Once again, Sam wonders why exactly the blind lawyer was wearing Daredevil's cowl only a few short hours ago.

"You keep saying  _it_ ," Stark says, offering Sam a surprisingly sympathetic smile. He drops his legs to the floor and sits up, leaning forward and clasping his hands together on the table. "I saw  _it_ , tried to stop  _it_. The Avengers all flew out to Lebanon last year to help look for survivors, and I did several overhead scans of the damage. I've been looking the data over ever since, and in my professional opinion,  there wasn't one bomb that went off in Lebanon that day. That's why the attack was so devastating. There wasn't one bomb, there were two." Sam's jaw drops and he gapes at the genius billionaire sitting before him in a suit jacket and what looks like a cat t-shirt who just somehow turned Sam's entire world upside down  _again_.

A second bomb means that no matter what Sam had done, the city of Lebanon would have been flattened. It means that regardless of how hard Sam tried to save the people he passed on the street, he would have failed. And it finally explains the question that has been floating around at the back of Sam's mind since he first learned of his and Dean's differing fates, explains how one Winchester brother could have safely escaped the blast while the other was caught right in the middle.

When they ran from that Biggerson's on the morning of October 5th, Sam and Dean went in two different directions. Dean ran away from the city center and headed for his car, but Sam ran toward the more populated downtown area to warn as many people as he could.

Sam ran directly toward the second bomb.

"That never once came up in Dean Winchester's trial." Matt points out as Stark gets to his feet, looking down at Sam with a somewhat smug expression on his face—he obviously enjoyed Sam's reaction to his news. "That kind of information would hav- no,  _should_  have come up."

"According to my highly-trained team of lawyers, and I'm sure you'd be inclined to agree, Mr. Murdock"—Stark nods in Matt's direction then pauses for a moment, frowning in apparent consideration before continuing—"Dean Winchester's trial was far from fair to the defendant. It was rushed by the state in order to please the public, and Mr. Winchester was more than likely given an incompetent lawyer and a biased jury. That's most probably the reason that he was given a life sentence rather than the death penalty: to keep him from voicing protests against his obviously unfair trial. But of course, no one batted an eye because the defendant was a domestic terrorist who killed 53 people and the only person who might have raised a fuss other than Mr. Winchester himself"—Stark pauses, angling his head in Sam's direction and raising one eyebrow to emphasize his point—"was believed to be buried six feet beneath the very rubble that he created." Stark takes a breath, then, crossing his arms and turning his attention to Matt. "Why did you choose to represent Sam Winchester, Mr. Murdock?" Stark questions suddenly in a tone that's tinged with suspicion. "He has no personal connection to you, and he certainly isn't paying you top dollar, or at all for that matter."

"I came the instant I was informed of his innocence," Matt says, and as Sam's anxiety skyrockets—this conversation is quickly verging into dangerous territory that puts both Sam's and Matt's identities at risk—he finds himself listening for the familiar rhythm of the blind man's heartbeat. It's easy to locate and as steady as a metronome, implying that Matt is telling the truth, or at the very least believes he is—although Sam is pretty sure Matt has a lot of experience in regulating his heart rate. Distracted as he is by Matt's heartbeat, Sam almost misses the accusatory edge to the blind lawyer's voice, but he certainly doesn't miss the raised eyebrow Matt earns from Stark after his comment.

"That sounded a little too denunciatory for my tastes, Mr. Murdock." Stark comments. "Are you implying that I'm here for any reason other than to assist an innocent man?"

"That's exactly what I'm implying, Stark," Matt replies coolly and Stark smirks, lifting his phone and tapping it a few times. The blinking red light on the security camera in the far corner of the room suddenly goes dark as Stark slips his phone back into his pocket and leans forward. He plants his palms on the metal table a few inches away from the bar Sam's right hand is cuffed to and stares directly into Sam's eyes, the clearly analytical expression that suddenly appears on the billionaire's face making Sam extremely uncomfortable almost immediately.

"Alright, we've got maybe two minutes before New York's finest figure out that the camera has just spontaneously gone dead and bust in here, so I'm going to cut right to the chase," Stark says, breaking his stare for a moment to give Matt an appraising look. "I'm going to assume that your extremely loyal and underpaid lawyer here already knows the truth and just come out and say it." Stark pauses to take a deep breath—likely more for the dramatic delay the action creates than for actual need of air—and then smiles conspiratorially. "I know that you're Darkside, Mr. Winchester."

And just like that, everything about this insanely strange situation makes perfect sense.

"Daredevil told you, didn't he," Sam says, resisting the strong urge to shoot Matt a withering stare. Stark nods, a curious expression forming on his face at this.

"He came to the Tower  _very_  early this morning"—Stark wrinkles his nose, clearly unhappy about said intrusion—"and insisted that the Avengers take Sam Winchester in, proclaiming your innocence and adding in the small detail that you were in immediate and likely mortal danger for good measure. We, obviously, were more than a little bit confused, so our mutual horned friend took the time to explain to us that you, Sam Winchester, are actually Manhattan's favorite yellow-eyed vigilante. He then vaulted out of a window and disappeared. Quite dramatic, really, with is something I can appreciate, although the costume could use some work." Stark pauses one more and retakes his seat before continuing. "You and Darkside being one and the same was, of course, already a possibility that was being considered at the Tower, thanks in part to your shared prosthetic leg."

"So if I were to move to Avengers Tower, what exactly would that entail?" Sam asks curiously, hesitant about this whole thing despite his inner fanboy's increasingly distracting thoughts about spending several months in close proximity to the Avengers. "Like, would I be in handcuffs the whole time? Under house arrest?"

"We aren't going to keep you chained to the wall for four months. We're superheroes, not monsters." Stark says with a short laugh. "You'll probably be under house arrest, at least at first, but that's for your own benefit rather than to keep you secure. There is, after all, a mostly unknown murderous vigilante who has explicitly made you his next target."

"Why take me in?" Sam presses, leaning forward. "Even if you believe me about Lebanon, there's another couple hundred infractions on my record, including a body count in the double digits and two mass shootings within a week."

"The Avengers as a whole like to think that it doesn't matter what someone did in the past, only what they try to do in the future," Stark says eloquently. "The Tower is home to no less than three ex-assassins at the moment—adding a suspected serial killer or even an actual one won't be much of a problem, as long as you don't actually plan on murdering anyone in the future."

"I don't," Sam swears, surprised by the civility with which Stark is treating him. He can see how tense the genius is beneath the surface, can sense his hesitancy, and Sam is pretty sure that Stark was not originally on board with this plan despite being the one to deliver the news. Stark may not trust Sam—Sam wouldn't trust Sam in this situation, either—but he's still willing to bring him into his home and offer him protection from a bigger, more immediate evil. The Judge, after all, killed a cop two weeks ago. Darkside hasn't been responsible for a single death since he arrived in Manhattan.

For most of Sam's life, he's viewed himself as the lesser of two evils when it came to his role as a hunter—killing the monsters rather than allowing them to kill innocent civilians. It's only fair that the outside world views him the same way.

"Well, then we shouldn't have a problem," Stark says with a grin. "And who knows, maybe if you behave until you're back on your feet, Darkside can go out from time to time and stop a few muggers." Sam returns the grin at this,  realizing for the first time the biggest advantage he'd gain from living with the Avengers. The Avengers already know the truth about Sam's alter ego thanks to Daredevil, so he wouldn't have to hide his nighttime activities or his abilities from them. And once he's out of the wheelchair and off of crutches—if that ever actually happens, seeing as he still doesn't think he'll be getting a new leg anytime soon—the Avengers, heroes themselves, may be willing to let him go out as Darkside without threatening his identity.

It's a miracle, nothing more, nothing less. A miracle Sam couldn't possibly have imagined, one that solves all of the problems of this trial, one that assuages all of his fears. He'll have protection from the Judge, people who are willing to at least consider his innocence, and the ability to continue going out and fighting crime as Darkside. It's a second chance at Sam's second chance.

"So, what do you think? You going to move in with the Avengers?" Stark asks, and Sam doesn't need more than a moment to think about his answer.

"I'm in." He says with a grin and Stark returns it, standing just as the door opens and a few cops burst into the room only to stop in their tracks when they realize that everyone is in the same position they were when the cameras went dead.

"Sam Winchester is going to be released into the Avengers' custody immediately," Stark says to the officers and Sam smiles a bit, eager to escape the handcuffs and the interrogation room and the precinct, and all too happy to not have to spend another night in the room where he was attacked.

This is a situation Sam never thought he would be in. He doesn't know which Avengers truly believe in his innocence or even how many do, but he knows that they'll likely treat him better than prison would—they are superheroes, after all.

Maybe, just maybe, this whole thing won't turn out so badly after all.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam's arrival at Avengers Tower the second time around couldn't be more different from the first. Rather than being led through a secret back entrance, Sam is paraded through the front door by two Stark Industries security guards and Tony Stark himself, with Matt walking along to his left. Rather than exchanging quips with—and quietly fanboying over—Stark, Sam is wheeled in silently while the billionaire expressly ignores him in favor of shooing away reporters and curious bystanders, of which there appear to be hundreds. Rather than hiding behind a mask that obscures half of his face, Sam has attention drawn to him by the handcuff around his wrist that shines every time a light flashes in the sea of cameras.

The second time around, Sam doesn't have the protection afforded to him by Darkside's mask and piercing yellow eyes. He doesn't even have the level of protection he's normally given on account his stature. Seated hunched over in a wheelchair, Sam is much smaller than his 6'4", and it's probably clear to anyone who sees him that he's far from the same man his brother is—Dean has always been the bigger brother both in age and personality, confident to a fault and filled to the brim with sarcasm and snark to rival Tony Stark. Sam has always been the quieter brother but this, this Sam with bowed shoulders and one and a half legs and a smattering of bruises on his face and neck—the only parts of him where his skin is visible—is something else entirely, something new and much inferior to the old Sam Winchester.

The long-dead Sam Winchester.

The thought crosses Sam's mind that Dean is probably watching his life through one of the many cameras pointed in Sam's direction and the younger Winchester straightens up, tightening his jaw and staring straight ahead as he's pushed through the lobby of Avengers Tower. It isn't until the elevator doors close—abruptly cutting off the shouts from reporters and the clicking of cameras and leaving Sam's ears ringing—that Sam releases the tension flowing through his body and slumps back down into his chair, ribs aching from the simple act of straightening his back and world spinning thanks to the effort—but not a doubt in his mind that it was completely worth it.

Dean has been through so much this past year—not just with Lebanon but the aftermath, a trial and prison and thinking his little brother was dead—the last thing he needs right now is to see the person that Sam has become, the shell of Sam Winchester who now occupies his form and his life—or at least, what's left of it.

The ride up to the private floors of the Tower is silent—the only sounds that reach Sam's ears are the heartbeats of the five people in the elevator and the ever-present buzzing of electricity and whatever other wires and pipes run through the walls of Avengers Tower. When the elevator doors open to the same lounge area where Daredevil and Darkside ate dinner with the Avengers—that meal took place less than two weeks ago and yet in another era entirely—Sam finds himself facing the same people he encountered the first time.

Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton are both seated at the bar, appearing relaxed at first glance, and second—and any glances following up until Sam sees the way their hands rest on their legs a little to awkwardly to be natural and surely a position that gives them easy access to what can only be numerous concealed weapons. Dr. Bruce Banner is standing beside the nearest couch, clearly uncomfortable—he's wringing his hands together and appears particularly interested in the laces of Sam's shoe—but doing a pretty commendable job of hiding it. The couch in question—one of four in a square—holds Captain Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, both men leaning against the back of the couch with their arms crossed. Captain Rogers is clearly unhappy with Sam's arrival, tension rolling off of him in waves and his face fixed into an expression of neutrality that's marred by the obvious dislike in his eyes. Barnes, on the other hand, is standing less stiffly than his friend and looks cautious rather than angry, and when his roaming eyes land on Sam's right leg—or lack thereof—Sam swears he sees sympathy flash across the face of the one-armed assassin.

There are a million emotions present on the faces of the five Avengers, but they all look hesitant—other than Romanoff and Barton, who either aren't reluctant at all or are just better at hiding it—and also expectant. Hands are crossed chests or behind backs as Stark dismisses the security guards, who disappear back into the elevator without a word, and Sam is unsurprised but very much unnerved to find himself on the receiving end of no less than six gazes of varying degrees of intensity.

Unable to move on his own accord with one arm cuffed to his wheelchair and the other strapped across his chest, Sam is stranded alone in the center of the room when Stark turns his back on his guest and heads to the bar, leaning against the end near where Romanoff is seated and nodding to Sam and Matt, who comes to a stop at Sam's side with a click of his cane and offers his friend a small but reassuring grin.

"Well, Mr. Winchester, I'd say welcome to Avengers Tower but we all know that you've already been," Stark says in a tone that's all too formal. Whatever suave businessman persona Sam spoke to in the interrogation room is long gone, replaced instead by a tight, uncomfortable figure who definitely doesn't agree with the majority of his team who decided to house Sam here in the first place. 

That, of course, makes Sam wonder why exactly he  _is_  here. The decision to take him in must have been made by the group, as Sam will be sharing a living space with all—or at least most—of the Avengers, but this tower belongs to Tony Stark first and foremost. If he really hates Sam as much as his body language implies, there's no way he'd allow the rest of the Avengers to bring Sam here—especially considering how clear it is just by looking around this room that Stark's opinion is not solely his own.

"So, Sam, why don't you tell us the truth about Lebanon?" Romanoff suggests, her tone mostly flat but her eyes alight with the same curiosity Sam saw in them at dinner. Sam isn't entirely sure how the red-haired assassin feels about his presence, her training and experience more than effective at keeping her true emotions hidden behind layers upon layers of false indifference. Sam can catch peeks at Romanoff's true feelings—like the curiosity—but for the most part, she's a mystery that Sam has no hope of solving.

Considering her reputation, however, Sam figures the agent is at least giving him the benefit of the doubt, or else he'd have been dead before the elevator door finished opening.

"And your powers, too, while you're at it." Captain Rogers adds darkly, stiffly. Where Romanoff's true feelings are hidden, Rogers's are obvious, written all over his face and in his posture. The opinion of Dean that Sam figured the Captain held was obviously extended to Sam the moment his identity was revealed and Sam figures his treatment will likely be even harsher given the fact that he pretty much lied to Rogers's face.

Sam glances at Matt then swallows hard, focusing his gaze not on any of the Avengers but on the wall behind them all—and more specifically on a piece of modern art that holds the vague shape and coloration of an Iron Man suit. Sam can't say what he has to say while making eye contact with a superhero, or with anyone for that matter.

Sam has never said out loud most of what he's about to say, but he has no choice. He has to convince the Avengers that he's innocent and to do that, he has to convince them that his version of events is the right one—which means spilling every detail he remembers of October 5th, 2017.

"One year ago, my brother and I were in Lebanon, Kansas," Sam says, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. "We went into a Biggerson's and found a massive bomb inside. It had a timer on it with maybe five minutes left and we knew we couldn't stop it, so we ran. Dean went one way, headed toward our car. I went the other, into the heart of the city." Sam swallows compulsively, clearing his throat twice before he continues. His heart is pounding in his chest and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears but he forces the growing feelings of unease down, tries to ignore them—the last thing he needs right now is to have a sensory attack in front of the Avengers. "I shouted for people to follow me, to get as far away from the bomb as possible, but I was too late. The bomb went off." Sam closes his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. "I was blown backward, into a telephone pole, I think. The back of my head hit it, hard, and it knocked me out. When I woke up, all I could see was dust in the air. I heard helicopters, sirens, maybe screaming, but everything was kind of fuzzy, kind of far away. And after that, I can't remember anything except for this intense, searing pain in my right leg."

The Avengers are silent, their attention fully on Sam and his story. At Sam's left, Matt is standing stiffly, listening just as intently as the Avengers. Sam has never told this story to anyone in this much detail, has never mentioned the impact, the dust, the pain. Right now, Matt is learning the same things that the Avengers are.

"My leg was torn clean off by the blast, severed just below the knee," Sam says. "I know that the amputation of the rest took place later, although the exact memories are kind of sketchy. My memories of Lebanon and what happened in the following months are kind of blurry, and there are a lot of pieces missing." Sam pauses, searching through the scattered memories he's regained both in flashbacks and in dreams and quickly realizing that his last totally clear memory before his escape is from that day in Lebanon. "I passed out from the pain in my knee and woke up in Hell's Kitchen."

"You told us that you got your powers after the Lebanon bombing, but you clearly had them before you came to Manhattan." Dr. Banner says, clearly misunderstanding Sam's last remark. "When exactly did that happen?"

"I didn't wake up in Hell's Kitchen months later, I woke up there immediately," Sam explains, tugging on the inside of his cheek with his teeth. "I wasn't found by the first responders in Lebanon because I was already gone when they arrived, kidnapped and somehow transported to Hell's Kitchen. Someone took me that day, maybe the same people who set the bomb. All I know is that I spent four months in a basement room with walls that were coated with blood, chained to a metal chair." 

Sam shivers involuntarily, opening his eyes and finding his gaze focused on Dr. Banner, who looks interested in a very clinical way. It's almost comforting, the way that Banner is analyzing Sam. There isn't any emotion clouding his judgement, not right now— only a scientist trying to figure out how something happened. And Sam is his subject. 

"And sometime during those four months, I gained my powers." Sam frowns, searching his scattered memories once again. "I escaped in the middle of February, four and a half months after the Lebanon bombing. I have very few memories, most of them flashes and fragments, of the four months I spent in captivity. When I escaped, I knew nothing about Lebanon. I didn't remember it had happened at all. I knew I had spent a significant amount of time with the people who gave me my abilities, but I didn't know how long or even what those abilities were. When I escaped, I met Daredevil. He recognized me pretty quickly, but instead of turning me in, he offered to train me, to help me control the powers I didn't even know I had."

"Daredevil really did a lot for you, didn't he." Rogers comments, a hint of suspicion in his tone.

"He gave me a way to recover from what happened to me." Sam defends his friend with a frown. "He trusted me, even when I wasn't sure if I could trust myself. He trained me, helped me control my abilities, helped me recover after I was shot, helped me take down the Demon. Spoke to you." Sam glances at Matt, who looks thoughtful. After a moment, he grins, stepping forward.

"If you'll excuse me, sirs and ma'am, I'd like to formally introduce myself," Matt says politely and Sam's eyes widen as he continues. "My name is Matthew Murdock. During the day, I'm a defense lawyer, and Sam is one of my clients. At night, I work alongside Darkside as his mentor and another vigilante, Daredevil." Sam stares at Matt in utter disbelief, although the corners of his mouth do turn up when he sees the slack-jawed expressions on the faces of the Avengers. "I figured that I might as well inform you all of this now, as I plan to spend a lot of time at your building in the next few months both as Sam's lawyer and as his friend."

"Okay, then," Stark says simply, rendered speechless by the sudden and unexpected announcement. He nods a couple of times to himself, then frowns thoughtfully. "I'm going to have to get you to test out some technologies for the visually-impaired that I've been working on." Another pause, then Stark's eyes shift away from Matt to Sam, and then to Barnes, who stiffens under the scientific gaze. "Which reminds me, Barnes, are you still up for some tests? I'll need to look at your prosthetic in more detail before I'll be able to make a functional leg." Stark's words are spoken casually, his tone hard but his gaze soft. Barnes doesn't speak but he does nod, the fingers on his metal hand flexing as he considers and accepts Stark's proposal.

"Wait, you're still going to make me a prosthetic?" Sam asks, even more surprised by this announcement than he was by Matt's. The mechanical genius standing before Sam just shrugs nonchalantly, a hint of a smirk on his face. Stark's body language and his words offer two different perspectives, evidence that he's not only fighting some of his team but a part of himself when it comes to his opinion of Sam.

Paradoxes seem to be a central part of Sam's nature. He's constantly finding them within himself, so it stands to reason that he'd force them upon the people around him as well.

"Of course I am," Stark says as if it should be obvious. "Like I said, Mr. Winchester, everyone deserves a second chance." Even if not everyone supports it, Sam's mind unhelpfully adds. An awkward air falls over the room in the ensuing silence and Stark claps his hands together, the loud sound echoing through the room and making Sam, Matt, Rogers, and Barnes—everyone with enhanced hearing, presumably—flinch. "Well, now that all that's been cleared up, on to the fun part. And by fun part, I mean the boring legal crap we're required to state so you can't sue us." Stark's eyes flit between Sam and Matt repeatedly before settling on the blind lawyer. "Alright, lawyer-man, you're up. On with the legalities."

* * *

"Happy should be bringing all of your things up right about now," Stark says, checking his watch as he speaks. Sam has been in Avengers Tower for about two hours now and has yet to leave the communal lounge—as the Avengers apparently refer to this floor. 

After the formal introductions and so-called legal jargon were completed, Stark sent Matt home with a man named Happy Hogan—a man with a demeanor that directly contradicts his name—and strict instructions to give Hogan any and all of Sam's personal belongings to be transferred to the Tower.

"We are sorry, by the way, about the forced move," Stark adds after a minute, genuine sympathy in his tone this time around. Stark's emotions are a confusing mix of indifference, dislike, and sympathy, evidence of an internal struggle Sam has no idea how to fix. Stark clearly isn't sure how he should feel about Sam's presence and his entire situation, and with every word Sam speaks the supposedly cold-hearted billionaire seems to grow less indifferent and more sympathetic toward the criminal who has just become his ward. "The Tower is many levels above a prison cell, but after the week you've had I'm sure you'd much prefer to be at home in your own bed." Sam frowns at this statement, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Where, exactly, do you think that I live?" He asks curiously as the thought occurs to him that none of the Avengers really know how Sam has been spending his time in Manhattan beyond his activities as Darkside.

"We figured that you had an apartment somewhere in Manhattan, probably in Hell's Kitchen, under a fake name." Captain Rogers explains although the frown he's wearing suggests that he's beginning to doubt that assessment. The elevator doors open at that moment and Hogan—who is apparently the head of Stark Industries' security team yet also Tony Stark's personal chauffeur—walks into the lounge with Sam's duffel bag in his arms, which he dumps unceremoniously into Sam's lap before turning to Stark, Rogers, and Romanoff—Barnes,  Banner, and Barton all vacated the lounge for various reasons not long after Matt left. Sam knows why Stark stayed—this is his building, which means that Sam is technically under his protection before the rest of the Avengers—and he's pretty sure that Romanoff is here to keep the two unhappy men in her midst from doing or saying something that they quickly regret—either to Sam or, possibly, to each other—but for the life of him Sam can't figure out why Captain Rogers, who clearly dislikes Sam the most of any of the Avengers, would stick around any longer than necessary.

Maybe he thought his assistance would be needed to move furniture, Sam thinks with a smirk.

"I'm a wanted terrorist, remember?" Sam points out, using his left foot and right hand—which was released from the handcuff not long after the legal talk began—to maneuver himself over to the coffee table in the center of the square of couches. He sets the duffel bag down on the table and turns, eyeing the Avengers—Rogers is still leaning against the back of the couch but Romanoff and Stark have both moved from the bar to the square of couches. Stark is lying across one of the couches with his legs resting on one of the arms, and across the square, Romanoff is seated on the arm of another couch, her legs tucked into the corner where the arm and back cushion meet. "Even if I used a fake name, I'd be at risk of being discovered." Sam continues. "My face is plastered pretty much everywhere these days."

"Happy, where's the rest?" Stark asks his friend/employee/whatever with a frown and Hogan frowns, glancing at Sam.

"That's all Murdock gave me," Hogan says simply.

"I told him to send Sam's furniture and bedding, too, did you remind him?" Stark asks.

"He said to ask Winchester," Hogan says, clearly annoyed with the string of questions as he nods to Sam and draws the Avengers' eyes back to the wheelchair-bound vigilante now positioned between them all. Hogan takes the opportunity to escape the scene, disappearing back into the elevator and leaving Sam as the sole object of Stark, Rogers, and Romanoff's attention.

"Matt had nothing else to give you because I don't have anything else," Sam says, smiling weakly. "I don't have any furniture or bedding, Stark."

"Where do you sleep?" Romanoff asks in a tone that suggests she's already guessed the answer.

"It changes from day to day," Sam admits, biting the inside of his cheek. "Rooftops, mostly, but sometimes alleyways or wherever else I can find a spot. Matt was going to make me crash on his couch once it got too cold to spend the night outside, but I guess that's not going to happen anymore."

"You're homeless?" Stark asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"I lost everything after the Lebanon bombing. My home, my brother, our car, everything I had except for the clothes on my back." Sam explains with a humorless laugh. "I came to Manhattan with nothing but a bloodstained t-shirt, a pair of dirty sweatpants, a cheap prosthetic leg that was really nothing more than a pile of scrap metal and screws, and a rusty metal crutch to help me walk. Everything else in this bag was a gift, including the bag itself." Sam pauses, glancing at Rogers. "I couldn't get an apartment because I had no money, couldn't get a job because I was supposed to be dead, couldn't go to a shelter because I might have been recognized. I lived in a warehouse in Hell's Kitchen for a while after I escaped but I had to leave when the Demon framed me for those three murders and the cops started looking for me there."

"So what do you have in that bag, anyway?" Romanoff asks when Sam shudders, memories of the Demon and his yellow-eyed counterpart beginning to take hold. Sam smiles, grateful for the subject change, and unzips the bag, pulling out the meager contents of what basically amounts to his life one by one and setting them down on the table.

"An extra pair of jeans, two t-shirts, a pair of sweatpants, three pairs of socks, some underwear..." Sam trails off as he removes his cheap black gloves and custom-made jacket and mask, which he sets down separately from the rest of his clothes. "Darkside's outfit." He says simply, nodding to the pile before turning his attention back to the bag and pulling out his blanket. Sam sets the blanket down, carefully unwrapping it to reveal the laptop Matt gifted him. With a frown, Sam recalls that his phone was destroyed by Red in that alley. If he's going to be able to contact Jody while he's with the Avengers, he'll need to find a way to get a new one—Stark doesn't really seem the type to have a landline. "The laptop was a gift from Matt a few days after we met, a sort of a peace offering. So were the clothes. The blanket has been my bed these past few months." Sam pulls out his lighter and pocket knife next, then the worn faux-leather wallet. "I bought the lighter, knife, and the gloves Darkside wears at a gas station back in March, I think, with the money that was inside the wallet. It's been empty since May, and the money mostly went to food." Sam pulls one last item out of the bag, frowning. It's another gray t-shirt, almost identical to the two he grabbed earlier, but for the white patch on one shoulder with a hole going straight through it.

"Is that...?" Rogers trails off and Sam nods, setting the shirt down on his lap.

"This is the shirt that I was wearing when I was shot in the bank robbery." Sam smiles weakly, shrugging. "I don't have enough clothes to afford getting rid of it so I bleached out the bloodstains and I still wear it under my jacket."

"I can't believe you live like this." Stark comments and Sam laughs half-heartedly.

"It's not so bad," Sam says. "Dean and I have lived in motels and our car for the past decade or so, traveling across the country. We could never stay in one place for long thanks to what happened in St. Louis in 2005 and all of the other incidents since then." Sam pauses, frowning. "Honestly, if the death penalty weren't such a big risk in this trial, I'd be fine with some time in prison. At least then I'd have a roof over my head, a bed, and consistent meals."

"Before you were arrested, how often did you eat?" Rogers asks with what looks like genuine worry in his eyes. Sam shrugs, watching at the captain stands and heads for the dining table, which has a tablet resting on it.

"About once every couple of days, I think," Sam says after a moment, to the horror of his hosts. "Don't worry about it." He adds, lifting his right hand placatingly. "I don't actually need to eat all that much these days, I think it's a side effect of my powers. I don't get hungry much, don't need as much sleep either." Stark still looks surprisingly concerned, but his attention is drawn away from Sam and to Rogers, who is approaching with a StarkPad in his hands.

"Tony, I'm going to head out," Rogers says without preamble, and Sam glances at the other couch only to discover that Romanoff has vanished without a word. Sam watches as Rogers approaches Stark, watches as he shoves the StarkPad into the genius's hands. Sam plans to watch Rogers leave but finds himself distracted by the expression on Stark's face—the ordinarily ultra-composed genius looks like he's trying to force his mind through a hard reset, like he's trying to turn himself off and on again. Stark stiffens, his expression returning to that impenetrable mask of stone, but it's too late—Sam has seen everything he needs to.

And finally, Sam understands.

Understands why Stark speaks kindly and shows sympathy even though his figure is stiff and unyielding. Why he surrounds himself with expensive things and employs a team of security guards even though he's a superhero and has an AI watching over his tower.

Tony Stark is just as damaged as Sam is. And, Sam figures as he recalls the numerous times Stark's name appeared in the papers circa 2008, just as weighed down by guilt.

Star's company was responsible for supplying weapons to terrorist groups, and while Stark himself had nothing to do with it, he must still hold himself responsible. Sam understands that feeling better than anyone—after all, isn't he doing the exact same thing right now with the Lebanon bombing?

That, Sam finally realizes, is the reason that, when a masked vigilante showed up on Stark's doorstep asking him to help, he left. Stark came because Daredevil told him that Sam was an innocent man who unknowingly got involved in something he shouldn't have, who took the lowest point in his life and turned it into a positive. Who lived through a nightmare and came out the other side a hero. Stark came because Sam was just like him.

When he sees the expression on Sam's face, Stark frowns, dropping the StarkPad onto the table with a clatter and crossing his arms.

"I don't like being handed things." He says defensively, tensing as if in preparation of an argument, as if he thinks he'll have to justify himself further. But Sam doesn't challenge him, doesn't even respond other than to nod, smiling warmly. And Stark stiffens even more for a second before he relaxes, offering Sam the most genuine smile he's ever seen on the face of the genius—not the tight-lipped smile of an indecisive man, but not the flashy smirk of the billionaire playboy persona, either. The real Tony Stark smile.

Without another word, Stark scoops up the StarkPad and leaves the room. And as Sam watches him go, he finds himself smiling again as he realizes that, just like that, he's formed something of an alliance with Tony Stark.


	12. Chapter 12

_The night is dark. The wind whistles through the bare trees and curls the ends of Sam's hair as it passes him by, curving around buildings and dancing through the city and all the while leaving nothing but a cold whisper in its wake. Sam shivers even after the biting wind leaves him behind—it's colder than it's been since the night he escaped, and even in the low light of the buildings, Sam can see the layer of frost that coats the ground, turning each blade of grass a glistening white._

_Sam is standing in a park he recognizes from his childhood, from the memories of playing catch with Dean and Bobby, from a time before monsters and demons and superheroes. It's a park from his past, but the buildings that surround it are from his present, the skyscrapers and towers clearly taking the shape of the Manhattan skyline. That's how Sam knows that this is a dream, that skyline. That, and the peace Sam feels even as his hands shake._

_Sam is standing in a park, and he's standing tall, his shoulders squared and his feet—one real and one metal, but equal both in size and in shape—planted firmly in the frosted grass. The sound of fallen leaves crunching underfoot draws Sam's eyes to his left, where he finds a man in a long coat, a beanie, and a scarf approaching him. There's a gun in the man's hand, but Sam doesn't react, doesn't turn his eyes yellow or speak a word or even blink any faster than he has been. His heart remains steady, and the calm persists as the man stops right in front of Sam, staring him down and pointing the gun at his chest._

_"Your time has come, Sam Winchester." The man says in a voice that sounds familiar to Sam for reasons he doesn't understand, from a place he doesn't quite remember. The man tucks his gun away and reaches for his beanie and Sam just stands silently, watching, waiting, until the man pulls off the beanie and the scarf and-_

"Sam!" A voice breaks through the dream and Sam jerks awake with a start, instinctively grabbing the hand on his shoulder and dropping his attacker to the floor with a couple of well-placed kicks. In an instant, Sam is on top of his foe, pinning him to the ground with one casted arm across his chest and the other holding his wrists to the ground—and then Sam's vision and mind clear, and he remembers where exactly he is.

And then he realizes that the man beneath him is none other than Steve Rogers, who looks annoyed, slightly in pain, and very much confused.

Sam scrambles to his feet and promptly falls on his ass, coming to another delayed realization—this time, that he currently only has one leg. Sam's automatic reaction to finding himself trapped, in the injured state that he is, is to flee, and he teleports out of the room without giving much thought as to where he'll end up. A moment later, Sam finds himself seated on cool tile and leaning against a wall, his chest heaving both from the unexpected and ill-advised use of his still-glitchy abilities and from the images of Captain Rogers and the stranger from his dream that followed him out of the lounge. Sam doesn't realize until he sees the nearly-invisible door to his right that he's gone into the back hallway on accident, effectively trapping himself on this floor since he doesn't have access to the private elevator.

Sam quickly discovered that his access in Avengers Tower is severely limited, and the only places in the tower he has full access to are the communal lounge, his bedroom—the single occupied guest room on a floor that holds ten—and another common level supposedly filled with miscellaneous rooms that Sam has yet to actually visit.

Although even if Sam could access the private elevator, it wouldn't matter—he doesn't have the means to get to it, since he has one leg and no wheelchair.

Unable to escape the floor and paralyzed by the thoughts of what he did to Captain Rogers that are still swirling in his mind, Sam quickly loses his grasp on his anxiety, and as that skyrockets so do his senses. There are a lot of people in Avengers Tower at any given moment, hundreds of Stark Industries employees on top of the thousands of daily visitors. All of those heartbeats and chattering voices—the private floors are supposed to be soundproof, the  _building_  is supposed to be soundproofed, but it isn't, not nearly to the level required to dull Sam's senses—do nothing to help Sam calm down. As the coldness of the metal wall of the hallway—which feels all too much like the wind from his dream—begins to seep into the skin of Sam's back, he finds himself desperate to find something familiar to latch on to. He discovers that something, surprisingly, in the communal lounge he just vacated, in the form of Matt Murdock's steady heartbeat.

Sam doesn't know why Matt is at the tower, doesn't remember him saying he'd be making a visit, but when Sam latches onto the blind man's heartbeat he starts to hear his words as well, and within a few seconds Sam figures out that Matt is here to take Sam to court for the first official day of the trial—which is more likely than not the reason that Captain Rogers was trying to wake Sam up in the first place.

"Are you alright?" Matt asks, abruptly shifting the ongoing conversation away from the impending court proceedings. "Sam can be very powerful when he's startled."

"I'm fine." Captain Rogers's voice is as clear to Sam as if they were in the same room, and his heartbeat says he's telling the truth—although, similarly to how Matt must have some level of control over his heart rate, Sam figures Rogers can probably lie with relative ease. "I'm pretty strong, too."

"What happened, anyway?" Another voice—Dr. Banner, Sam is pretty sure—asks. "I saw you head over there and then all of a sudden you were on the floor.

"I tried to wake him up by calling his name a few times, but he wasn't responding, so I grabbed his shoulder," Rogers explains. "Then he grabbed me and pinned me down. As soon as he fully woke up and I saw some recognition in his eyes, he let go and then vanished."

"He was probably having a nightmare, and you pulled him out of it." Dr. Banner reasons.

"Not necessarily." A new voice says—this one Sam is reasonably certain belongs to one Sam Wilson. Wilson arrived at the tower yesterday morning, and Barnes briefly explained to Sam that he's not a permanent resident at the tower so much as an occasional visitor. He's staying with the Avengers for the next few months, apparently to do more training with the team of heroes. Even though Wilson has been making himself very much at home, Sam hasn't really seen much of him, and the two have yet to have a conversation or even cross paths when someone else wasn't in the room.

"What are you thinking, Sam?" Rogers asks.

"The way he reacted isn't the way most people lash out after a nightmare," Wilson explains—Sam recalls someone, likely either Barnes or Romanoff, telling him that Wilson was a psychiatrist or something similar. "That looked like a soldier, Steve, like you or Barnes when you're woken unexpectedly. He wasn't lashing out so much as reacting to a threat."

"Sam Winchester wasn't a soldier." Rogers protests immediately and Sam frowns. Sure, he never served in the military, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have the same problems. Sam may not have been a soldier, but he was sure as hell raised as one.

"That doesn't mean he wasn't raised like one." Matt is quick to come to Sam's defense, the annoyance clear in his voice. "Sam was raised by an ex-Marine father who had no idea what to do with the two little boys he suddenly had to care for all on his own. For all intents and purposes, Sam spent his childhood in the military, as a soldier in his father's army. Sam and Dean's troubles began long before Lebanon, long before St. Louis."

"We knew that Sam had been through some things both before and after the bombing." Dr. Banner says patiently. "But you're implying that there was a lifetime of abuse leading up to the Winchester brothers' criminal lives."

"Not abuse, necessarily." Matt is quick to correct, much to Sam's relief—he may not have ever been John Winchester's biggest fan, but the man wasn't a monster. "Sam and Dean weren't necessarily abused by their father, just raised in a way that wasn't entirely right. And even if their childhoods weren't desirable, that isn't a precursor to crime." Matt sounds angry, now—although his words are still spoken with the pleasant tone of a lawyer, there's a thinness to them that wasn't there before. "And besides, from what Sam has told me, the way he was raised just may have saved his life several times over in the fifteen or so years between his leaving his family to go to Stanford and the Lebanon bombing." There's no immediate response from the Avengers, no questions of clarification on Sam's time at Stanford or what all happened in those fifteen or so years. There's no need for it—that kind of information isn't a mystery any longer.

It's still strange to Sam, knowing that his life story—or at least, the supernatural-less majority of it—is common knowledge in the world now. Sam discovered in August that he had his own Wikipedia page and marveled at how effortlessly his life was divided into clean-cut categories:  _Early Life, Stanford Years, St. Louis, Encounters with Law Enforcement, Death, FBI's Most Wanted, Death, Lebanon Bombing,_ and  _Death_  again. It was more than a little bit amusing to see that his Wikipedia page has three different deaths on it—although the last one has likely since been removed—but the amount of emphasis placed on Sam's supposed criminal activities—despite the fact that he's never actually been convicted of a crime—was discouraging, to say the least.

"When he was on the FBI's Most Wanted List twice and supposedly died on at least two different occasions?" The question comes from Wilson, who surprisingly sounds more like Dr. Banner than Captain Rogers—that is, more objective than emotional.

"The information that Sam gave me is not mine to disclose, but I think that since you've been designated as Sam's keepers for the next few months, you deserve to know at least some of the more pertinent details," Matt says patiently, formally. "Most importantly, that the months following what happened in Lebanon were not the first time Sam had been kidnapped and/or tortured. Both have happened on previous occasions, and at least one other time have happened in tandem." Rogers, Banner, and Wilson are silent following this revelation, and as their hearts speed up for unclear reasons Sam shrinks in on himself, terrified of the reactions he'll face from the Avengers now that they know a little more of the life Sam has led up until this point.

"That's horrible." This time when Rogers speaks, his voice is softer. "Obviously, you can't disclose Sam's secrets to us, but can you at least tell us how to help him?"

"At the very least, help us avoid scaring him like Steve did when he tried to wake him up," Wilson adds.

"If at all possible, just let him sleep," Matt says wisely, and Sam smiles a bit to himself. He, of course, knows exactly how someone can wake him up without causing him to attack them—it's the way Dean has always woken him up, and the way he's always woken Dean. Matt doesn't know what to do, has never needed to, but something tells Sam that the blind lawyer has observed a lot more about Sam than Sam originally thought. "If you must wake him, don't touch him. Just say his name until he wakes up on his own. Most of the time, he'll wake up once he senses someone else in the room." Once he senses someone else in the room who isn't Dean, Sam mentally corrects.

"We're going to have to talk about this later, preferably with Sam in the room," Wilson says, "but for now, don't you need to get him to court?"

"Oh sh-right, I forgot about that," Rogers says, following up his statement with a couple of curse words under his breath at a volume he probably thinks no one else can hear. Sam can, clearly, and the light snicker coming from Matt is evidence that the blind lawyer can, too.

"Where did Sam go, anyway?" Dr. Banner questions and Matt's laugh grows loud enough that the Avengers can actually hear it.

"He's been listening to us this whole time," Matt informs the trio of unsuspecting heroes. "Come on out, Sam." He adds in a slightly raised voice, and Sam activates the door panel, pulling himself carefully up until he's balancing carefully on his left leg and leaning heavily against the wall. Dr. Banner is quick to grab Sam's wheelchair from its spot next to the couch and bring it over to the injured man, helping Sam sit down before moving away quickly, much like a skittish cat who's afraid of something that won't—and currently can't—do it harm.

Sam smiles stiffly, hunching his shoulders the way he always has, ever since he outgrew his brother and most of the people he encountered on a daily basis. He's always tried to make himself as non-threatening as possible to anyone who isn't a threat to him, but with a stature like his, that's always been difficult. It's interesting, how so many things have changed and yet that one small detail has remained the same.

Sam has always been seen as dangerous, always been unconsciously feared due to circumstances outside of his control. The only thing that's changed is that now, merely making himself smaller will do nothing to put nervous minds at ease.

The next person to take hold of the handles of Sam's wheelchair is one of Stark's guards from the other day, one of the two who led him into the tower in handcuffs. Sam is pushed toward the elevator with Matt at his side and Rogers leading the way, ready to make himself a barrier between Sam and the general public who hates him so much that they may just take matters into their own hands.

As the two heroes converse quietly in the elevator, Sam stares at his casted hand and takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself to go back into the chaos that awaits him outside, back into the sea of judgement and anger that's punctuated by screams and flashing lights.

Back into the world that has never been on his side.

* * *

By the time the court has adjourned for the day, four hours have passed, and Sam is exhausted.

If he could stand, he'd be dead on his feet, but as is he has to fight to stay awake as one of Stark's security guards—it's the same two men from the day Sam arrived at the tower, which makes him think they've been assigned as his own personal security detail—pushes him into the elevator. The elevator takes the group—Sam, his two guards, and Captain Rogers, who joined the trio after dropping Matt off at home—to the communal lounge first, presumably to drop Rogers off.

Except that Sam's guard pushes him out, too.

Sam is left at the dining table as both guards vacate the room, and Rogers—who looks relatively confused—heads for the kitchen, where Tony Stark is waiting with a tablet in his hands.

"So, how'd court go, Winchester?" Stark asks, and Sam finds himself flinching—he didn't realize until today how  _poisoned_  his last name has become, how evil it sounds in the mouths of the protestors who crowded the courthouse and how dangerous it becomes when wielded by the prosecutor and the judge. It's a name Sam never much liked in childhood but embraced as an adult when it identified him not as a weird new kid at an endless line of schools but as a legend, a hero among hunters. After Lebanon, Sam lost touch with his name, but it's still  _his_ , still a piece of him that he doesn't want to lose.

Yet another piece of him that's been ruined by Lebanon and the year that followed.

"It was court," Sam says frankly, ignoring the way his voice shakes and praying that Stark and Rogers do the same. To Sam's surprise, they actually do, and as Rogers opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water, Stark approaches Sam, holding out the StarkPad with clear intentions for Sam to take it.

"While you were enjoying an afternoon of legal bullshit, I was making a few calls," Stark says when Sam takes the tablet gingerly—StarkPads are not cheap, and Sam honestly never thought he'd see the day he was in a room with one, much less holding one in his hands. Stark grins the same way that he did when he told Sam about the second bomb and Sam stiffens automatically, wondering apprehensively what bombshell Stark is going to drop on him this time.

"Get on with it, Stark," Rogers says from the kitchen, and Stark turns away from Sam to glare at the captain, who just smirks.

"Thanks for ruining the suspense, Capsicle," Stark says in faux-annoyance, turning back to Sam and gesturing to the tablet. "I convinced a federal judge to let you have a fifteen-minute supervised video conversation with your brother," Stark says simply, apparently abandoning the grandeur after Rogers's interruption. Sam's mouth drops open, and he gapes at the genius, who just shrugs impassively. "Tell JARVIS to make the call when you're ready," Stark adds, nodding sharply to Rogers before striding purposefully from the room. Rogers sends Sam a hesitant but genuine smile then follows Stark into the elevator, leaving Sam alone in the communal lounge. Sam carefully sets the tablet down on the table, taking a deep breath.

This is something that Sam has wanted for months, and yet now that he finally has the opportunity, he doesn't know what to do with it. He's terrified that Dean will be angry, or worse, depressed. That he'll have changed even more than Sam did, that he won't be the same brother Sam left behind in Lebanon a year ago without even knowing it. What do you say to someone you haven't seen in a full year, someone who you lived your whole life with? What do you say when both of your lives have changed so drastically in that time?

"JARVIS?" Sam asks softly—if he doesn't do this now, he never will, and who knows when he'll get another chance—and the tablet switches on, Stark Industries logo flashing for an instant before being replaced with a face that Sam never thought he'd see again. "Dean?" Sam asks, his voice cracking on that single syllable that holds so much weight.

"Sammy," Dean replies, a lopsided grin stretching across his face. "Dude, you look like shit." Sam laughs at that, a real, genuine laugh that dissolves into a coughing fit when his injured ribs protest. He could probably look better—he's still got an impressive ring of bruises around his neck, and his nose pretty much lives at a permanent slant—but he's still dressed in the pressed suit he wore to court, and his long hair is tucked neatly behind his ears. Dean, Sam is shocked to see, looks pretty good. He's dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit, his hair cut military style and mussed somewhat and his face freshly shaven, a light stubble decorating the area around his mouth. Sam sincerely doubts that Dean paid much attention to his appearance during his year in prison, figures the older Winchester brother just shaved two hours ago when he found out that Sam was going to see him. But while Dean still cleans up nicely, his haircut and stubble can't distract Sam from the recent injuries his big brother appears to have sustained.

"You're one to talk." Sam counters, cataloging the numerous bruises—all showing the same amount of healing as Sam's—that mar the elder Winchester's face. "What happened to you?" Dean's smile fades somewhat, and he gestures with one hand to the ring of bruises, faded now to sickly shades of green and yellow, that cover Sam's neck.

"Same as you." Dean admits, scratching lightly at his right cheek where a shallow cut is beginning to scab. "Someone decided to give me a beating on the big anniversary." Dean doesn't have to specify what anniversary he's talking about—he was clearly injured the same day that the Judge broke into Sam's cell. October 5th.

"We're never going to escape this one, are we?" Sam comments pessimistically, and Dean just sighs, shaking his head.

"You know, man, I'm good to spend the rest of my life in this shitty-ass jumpsuit, now that I know that you're okay," Dean says with a weak grin, rubbing the back of his neck and staring directly into Sam's eyes as his expression sobers. "You have no idea how scared I was those first five months when I didn't know what had happened to you, how much it hurt to find out you had died in the blast. When I found out that you were arrested in Manhattan last week, I swear to God I cried like a baby. I thought I had lost you, Sammy."

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth," Sam says, wiping at the tears threatening to escape from the corners of his eyes with his uncasted hand. "I wanted to tell you so badly, Dean."

"Don't you dare apologize for that, Sammy," Dean says sternly, shaking his head. "Don't you dare apologize for doing what you had to do to stay alive, to stay safe. Any contact you had with me would have put you in handcuffs. I'm happy you got the chance to be free, even if it meant I had to suffer for a bit.

"I'm sorry," Sam repeats, his voice and his heart both breaking.

"Stop apologizing, damn it," Dean says, shaking his head again and laughing halfheartedly. "Man, I gotta hand it to you, you did one hell of a good job evading arrest this past year." It's a clear deflection, but Sam lets it slide, allows his brother to move away from the painful subject and hide in his humor the way he always has. "What even happened?" Dean continues, and Sam's heart sinks into his stomach. "I know your leg got blown off, I can still read the news in here."

"I can't tell you, not like this," Sam admits with a loaded sigh. "It's... complicated."

"Normal complicated or the other kind?" Dean questions, raising an eyebrow.

"The other kind," Sam says quietly, and Dean's face goes ashen.

"Were you... Did they..." Dean trails off, unable to voice his thoughts. Sam knows what he's asking, though—he's always been able to tell what his brother was thinking.

"Four months," Sam says. "I was with them for four months." Dean draws in a haggard breath at this and Sam just nods, unable to say anything more without risking the people monitoring this call asking questions neither Winchester brother can answer.

"Who?" Dean asks softly, his voice cracking on that single syllable that's so loaded with fear, with worry. It breaks Sam's heart to pile more onto his brother's burdened conscience, but Dean deserves to know what was happening to his little brother while he was in prison.

Both brothers spent the past year fighting losing battles. Sam's was just a little more physical.

"Asmodeus," Sam admits, praying that none of Dean's guards decide to investigate. I'm okay, Dean, I swear. I got out in February, met up with Jody and the girls." It's not entirely accurate but Sam can't risk revealing his association with Matt and his friends in Manhattan, can't risk anyone knowing just how long he's been hiding out in Hell's Kitchen. Hell, Sam still doesn't know exactly how long he's been in New York, doesn't know how soon after Lebanon he was brought to the warehouse in Hell's Kitchen that he escaped from that cold, rainy night last February.

"Have you heard from Cas at all? Jack?" Dean asks, and Sam frowns, shaking his head.

"I thought... I thought that Cas was dead." He protests, head spinning. Dean's eyes widen, and he shakes his head frantically.

"What? No, Sam, he isn't dead." Dean says. "Why did you think he was? Did something happen?"

"Jody said..." Sam trails off, frown deepening. "Jody said that when Jack was born, Cas was killed. Stabbed. Said we went to talk to her, told her that." The blood drains from Dean's face, and he shakes his head again, and apprehension rises in the pit of Sam's stomach.

"Jack brought Cas back, Sammy," Dean says. "You don't remember?"

"I don't remember a lot of things," Sam admits, biting the inside of his cheek. "I think I hit my head when I was thrown by the blast in Lebanon. I don't remember anything of the days leading up to October 5th, and I don't remember a lot of things that happened before or after it, either. But..." He trails off again, a couple of tears slipping free and painting trails down his cheeks. "If Cas is alive, why didn't he come? I didn't know, at first, didn't even remember his death until Jody told me what she knew. I prayed to him, Dean, prayed for days, and he never came." Dean swallows hard at this revelation, a spark of anger lighting in his eyes.

"Maybe he has an excuse. Maybe he's somewhere safe with Jack." Dean pauses, looking at Sam with pure rage in his expression. "But if he isn't, I'm going to kill him myself. He has no business abandoning you, Sammy, I don't care what happened to you after Lebanon."

"Cas always liked you better, Dean," Sam comments doubtfully, shaking his head. "With you in prison and me in the wind, I guess he figured the Winchester brothers were no longer in need of his protection."

"When in reality, you were stumbling around with a messed up memory and half of your leg blown clean off." Dean is seething now, his face red, but Sam doesn't think the anger is directed at Cas so much as at Dean himself. Sam and Dean are one and the same when it comes to guilt, and Dean has likely been blaming himself for Sam's death just as viciously as Sam has been blaming himself for Dean's imprisonment. Now that he actually has someone to vent to, Dean is finally blowing off all the steam that's been trapped beneath the surface for upwards of a year.

"Time's up." A gruff voice says on Dean's end of the line, and Dean swallows again, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"We're going to talk again, Sammy, you hear?" Dean says. "In person, too, and you're going to tell me exactly what happened to you this past year."

"Only if you tell me what you've been up to," Sam replies, smiling weakly. Dean nods, rubbing at his eyes, and Sam does the same. His hand comes away wet, and he sends Dean another smile, this one far more genuine. "I love you, Dean," Sam says as forcefully as he can, and Dean grins, eyes alight with pain and sorrow and a whole lot of relief.

"Love you too, Sammy," Dean replies with a short nod. "Stay safe, alright? Don't let those Avengers get the best of you." He pauses, a mischevious smirk on his face as a guard enters the frame, hand outstretched toward whatever screen Dean is using for the video call. "Oh, and Sammy?"

"Yeah?" Sam asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I love the mask, man. It really suits you." Dean's smirk widens, and he winks as the screen goes black, leaving Sam reeling. Dean  _knows_. Knows that Sam is Darkside, knows what he's been doing in Manhattan. There's no other explanation for that comment, nothing else Dean could have possibly meant by that. Dean  _knows_.

And Dean approves.

A massive weight lifts off of Sam's shoulders at that and for just a second, for the first time in a year and three days, Sam truly believes that everything is going to be okay.


	13. Chapter 13

Four days into his house arrest at Avengers Tower, Sam is ready to punch someone. Being stuck inside without so much as a cell phone is bad enough, but Sam has dealt with literally being trapped in an empty concrete room for several years straight before, so the boredom isn't that much of an issue. No, the real problem is the wheelchair. Sam has always been an incredibly mobile person—the only reason he survived those years of solitude was by semi-constantly working out—so not being able to even walk has him pulling out his hair within days, buzzing with unusable energy.

Sam pushes himself into the communal lounge one night and heads for the kitchen, opening the fridge and reaching for the yogurt, only to find that someone has moved it to the top shelf. That's another thing about the wheelchair—Sam's mobility has been drastically decreased, and after getting used to being the tallest person in the room, his sudden inability to reach anything above about five feet is not a welcome change.

Sighing, Sam pulls himself up into a standing position, balancing carefully on his left leg as he reaches into the fridge, grabbing one of the yogurts—and nearly losing his balance when the action sends a sharp pain through his chest. With a pained—and irritated—groan, Sam lowers himself back into the wheelchair, carefully maneuvering the bulky device over to the silverware cabinet and then out of the kitchen. He pulls up to the table and opens his yogurt, taking a bite and deciding that the taste isn't worth the immense effort.

As if to rub it in more, another sharp pain cramps Sam's hand and his spoon drops to the floor with a clatter. Cursing, Sam leans over, grimacing when his injured ribs protest his actions. After a minute of pain and failure, Sam gives up, putting his head in his hands.

He's seriously considering hopping on one leg from now on when he hears what sounds like scuffling coming from the ceiling—which could be someone on the floor above, except that Avengers Tower is almost entirely soundproof. Looking up, Sam follows the noise across the ceiling to the air vent that opens up over the kitchen. And then, to Sam's surprise, the vent opens.

And then a brunet archer drops out of it, landing in a crouch in the middle of the kitchen.

Sam watches in disbelief as Clint Barton straightens and grabs an apple from the bowl on the island, taking a bite. He turns and, upon seeing Sam, waves a hand in greeting, acting as if he didn't just appear from the air vents—or at least, like that's normal behavior for him. It might be, actually. Sam wouldn't be surprised.

"Hey, Sam!" Barton says enthusiastically, walking over to the table and taking another huge bite out of his apple as he examines Sam's yogurt then turns to face Sam expectantly.

"Um... hi?" Sam says awkwardly, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that the archer appears to use the vents the same way most people use hallways.

"Sorry about the vent thing," Barton says with a grin. "Didn't think you'd be down here."

"Do you... regularly travel by air vent?" Sam asks slowly, still somewhat shocked. Barton nods, grin never wavering.

"It's way more fun than the hallways, and I like dropping in on the other guys when they aren't expecting it." He explains. "Well, other than 'Tasha. She can hear me coming from a mile away. Oh, and the vents are more secure. I'm a sniper, I like small spaces. Makes me more comfortable." Sam nods, understanding the sentiment. One of the (many) reasons he hates being stuck in a wheelchair is that he can't make a quick escape.

"That's... interesting," Sam says with a frown and Barton just grins.

"So, Sam, what's your plan for Halloween?" The archer asks conversationally, sitting down on the other end of the table and tucking his legs beneath him. "Gonna go trick-or-treating? Pass out candy? Watch some scary movies?"

"I don't really celebrate Halloween," Sam says awkwardly, somewhat confused by Barton's enthusiasm over the holiday that tends to be mostly celebrated by children and college students at parties. "You do?"

"Of course!" Barton exclaims excitedly, throwing his hands in the air. The apple flies from his hand and makes a small arc as it falls, landing neatly in Barton's other outstretched hand like a bizarre—and extremely coordinated—juggling trick. "Halloween is the only day of the year that it's socially acceptable to go out in public dressed like a fairy."

"If you're twelve." Sam points out.

"Okay, whatever, humbug," Barton says. "Why don't you like Halloween?"

"I've encountered too many monsters in my life to want to pretend to be one," Sam says truthfully, and the smile drops from Barton's face almost immediately as he quickly sobers. There is, of course, also the whole matter of the somber anniversary that shortly follows the holiday, but that's not something Sam is quite prepared to share with the Avengers just yet.

"I didn't even think about that," Barton admits, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "If you want, you can join 'Tasha and me in here on the 31st. We're gonna watch The Nightmare Before Christmas and eat all the candy Tony buys for trick-or-treaters." Barton sends Sam a conspiratorial grin and winks. "He always gets too much, never notices if a bag or two goes missing." Sam musters up enough energy to smile weakly, shaking his head.

"Sounds nice." He mumbles, turning away as he does so.

"Huh?" Clint asks, and Sam turns back to see the archer angling his head to the side and messing with his ear. After a second he pauses, nodding to himself. "That explains a lot, actually." He says with a groan. "Great. Tony's gonna kill me."

"Why is Stark going to kill you?" Sam asks, and Barton looks up.

"Could you repeat that?" He asks, and Sam frowns.

"Why is Stark going to kill you?" He repeats a little more slowly, and Barton nods.

"I've apparently lost one of my hearing aids. Again." Barton explains, and Sam's eyes widen.

"You're deaf?" He asks in surprise, and Barton nods.

"Been a little hard of hearing for a while but an explosion on the job did me in." He explains. "Stark tricked out some hearing aids that double as comms years ago, but we still haven't quite found a way to make them stay in yet. Keep losing 'em on missions."

"And you didn't notice that you lost one?" Sam asks, frowning. Barton shrugs, poking at his right ear—the one missing an aid, apparently.

"Just got back from an assignment two hours ago, went in for a nap." He explains. "I kinda figured you were just quiet."

"Sorry," Sam says, although he isn't entirely sure what he's apologizing for.

"I'm not deaf because of you. Unless you're a Mongolian terrorist monk." Barton says. "And I'm cool with it. Electrical interference is a pain in the ass, but I can read lips pretty well, which can actually be really helpful in the field. And besides, you're in the same boat as me." Barton gestures to Sam's wheelchair, then nods more specifically at his missing leg. "Oh, to be a disabled superhero."

"No civilians can know because they might not take you seriously," Sam says, and Barton nods, frowning.

"I heard what happened the other day." He says. "'Tasha told me. Said you seemed upset." Sam frowns at that, wondering how exactly Romanoff knew considering she wasn't actually in the room—then again, the spy does appear to know pretty much everything. Then Sam realizes that Barton is talking about the other incident Rogers was involved in that took place the following day.

When Sam, Rogers, and Romanoff—who joined Sam's escorts after it was discovered that one Avenger and two guards just weren't enough to keep the crowds at bay—were leaving the courtroom, someone in the mob of people made a comment not about Sam's trial or Lebanon but about his wheelchair. Rogers was, surprisingly, quick to come to Sam's defense—or maybe just the defense of other disabled people—but the incident got Sam thinking about his bout in a wheelchair through a lens he hadn't previously considered.

"This thing is temporary for me," Sam says. "I'll get up and walk away, get a fancy new leg and be on my feet again in no time. A lot of people won't. My uncle was in a wheelchair for a while and losing that mobility, that freedom, it nearly killed him."

"Some people just don't understand," Barton says. "The key is to ignore them. Which, I'll admit, is easier when you can take out hearing aids and cease to even hear them, but still." Barton laughs at his own words, and Sam cracks a smile, one that quickly falls away as he looks down at his mismatched legs.

"With everything that's happened to me in the past year, I've never really had time to come to terms with the fact that I'm missing a leg," Sam admits, taking care to make sure Barton can see his face since he's pretty sure the archer is reading Sam's lips to supplement his remaining hearing aid. "I've been so busy with fighting and running that I didn't think about the fact that everyday tasks would be a lot more difficult. Like getting out of bed and showering and picking things up that I dropped." Sam nods to the spoon still lying on the floor, and Barton walks over, picking it up and tossing it behind him with a glance over his shoulder. Sam is mildly impressed to see the spoon bounce off of the fruit bowl and land neatly in the sink.

"I know at the moment it isn't possible, given the circumstances, but have you ever considered a service dog?" Barton asks suddenly, and Sam shrugs.

"I mean, I've always wanted a dog, but no, the thought never crossed my mind." He says. "Aren't service dogs mostly for blind people and people who have, like, seizures?"

"They don't have to be," Barton says. "I've got one. His name is Lucky. He's only got one eye, but he's a good dog. He's trained to wake me up if my house is burning down, or if there's someone at the door and I slept without my aids in, but mostly he helps me with boring, everyday things like fetching my aids from the bedroom when I forget to put them on and emotional support."

"Emotional support?" Sam repeats skeptically, and Barton grins.

"Any situation that requires a service dog is probably gonna be a bit traumatic, or at least a bit annoying." He explains. "Needing a dog like Lucky means that there's something you can't do on your own, and even if it's something minor like not being able to hear the doorbell, it's still hard to lose and harder to admit you miss. Sometimes all you need to get you through is a helping hand. Or paw, I guess. Lucky helped me out a lot after Thor's emo brother did a nice mind control number on me, nearly got me to kill Tasha and everyone else. Service dogs are there for you when you need help physically, but that's not the only kind of damage you can have."

"I don't know," Sam says hesitantly. "I mean, I don't exactly have the means to support a dog right now. I can't even support myself."

"Well, for now, you've got me and Tasha and Barnes on your side," Barton says, and it's true—the more time Sam spends with the Avengers, the more obvious it becomes which ones are on his side. While they all appeared hesitant at first, Barnes and Romanoff were both quick to subtly align themselves with Sam, whether that was by sitting with him at dinner or protecting him on the street. And Barton, likely due to Romanoff's influence, began to show his support within a few days. "And Barnes acts all tough, but he's practically a puppy, so you've already got that base covered. You'll be fine." Sam smiles gratefully, and Barton takes another bite out of his apple, beginning to turn away.

Sam quickly does the hand sign for 'thank you' and Barton pauses, surprised.

"You know ASL?" He asks, and Sam nods, then shrugs.

"Some." He says. "I learned it in college, but I fell out of practice until a couple of years ago. Met a deaf girl, and she saved my life. We kept in touch, and I started to learn again." Barton nods, waggling his eyebrows.

"And this girl, where is she now?" He asks.

"She died about a year and a half ago now," Sam admits, and Barton frowns.

"Oh. Sorry." He says awkwardly, and Sam shrugs.

"Unfortunately, I'm kinda used to it." He says. "But thanks anyway. She would have loved to meet you, Agent Barton."

"I would have loved to meet her," Barton replies, then frowns. He looks like he's going to say more, but he suddenly looks down at his wrist and groans. "I've gotta go debrief, I kinda took the vents to escape, and Hill is mad." He tosses his half-finished apple into the kitchen—it lands perfectly in the trash can, of course—and climbs up onto the island, grabbing the edges of the air vent and pulling himself inside. After a second, Barton's head appears, and he sends Sam a huge grin. "See you around, Sam!" He says with a wave. Sam signs 'goodbye' back and Barton moves to replace the vent cover only to pause at the last second. "Oh, and call me Clint!" He adds just before disappearing. Sam tracks his movement until the archer reaches the far wall, then the noise abruptly cuts off as the soundproofing kicks in.

So, one of the Avengers is deaf—and likes to spend his free time traveling through the vents. Barton—Clint—has no reason to want to talk to Sam, much less offer him advice and tell him about his personal life. But the archer spoke to Sam anyway. And his enthusiasm is infectious. Sam's mandatory stay at Avengers Tower is starting to feel less like a stint in a cushy holding cell and more like a vacation at a friend's house.

Maybe this won't be so bad after all.


	14. Chapter 14

As he spends more and more time at Avengers Tower—most of it spent aimlessly roaming around or watching news broadcasts on the large TV in his bedroom—Sam begins to realize that the Avengers are significantly different to what he initially expected. Although he has never been one for too much hero worship—due mostly to his upbringing and his relationship with the world of the supernatural—Sam couldn't help but be influenced by the media and by the opinions of those around him. And so—like pretty much everyone else in the world, he figures—Sam always saw the Avengers a certain way, idealized them more like superheroes than as actual people, which for the most part is what they actually are.

The first time Sam realized that Avengers are people too was discovering Clint Barton's disability, but in the days following that event, Sam begins to see cracks in the facades the rest of the Avengers invariably wear—or at the very least, when they think Sam is watching. Natasha Romanoff is undoubtedly mysterious, undoubtedly dangerous, but she also has a softness about her that only comes out when she's speaking to one of the other Avengers, notably Barnes and Barton. She's also surprisingly funny, cracking many a joke and smirking proudly whenever Sam laughs despite himself. Bucky Barnes is remarkably quiet, but not in the imposing way you'd expect a feared assassin to be. He's always been seen as quiet, but dangerously, a killer you never see coming. But in the tower, he's a different kind of quiet, a shy kind that seems almost scared of the people around him. It's surprisingly similar to how Sam feels every time he leaves the tower and even, to some extent, around the people within it.

Sam is sure that there are details about the rest of the Avengers that the world gets very wrong, but for the most part, he hasn't seen them, if only because the rest of the Avengers aren't nearly as comfortable around Sam as Romanoff, Barton, and Barnes. Those three are very clearly on his side in the endless debate of his innocence, of his character, and as such are the only ones willing to treat Sam not as a stranger but as someone who lives in the same building and breathes the same air that they do.

Sam is okay with that—or at least, he's trying to convince himself that he is—but if he's entirely honest, it's difficult to know that the world's most loved heroes can't even look him in the eye. It seems to Sam that Captain Rogers makes it a habit of ignoring him or at least coming up with an excuse not to speak to him at length, and Sam hasn't actually seen Tony Stark since the genius gave Sam a StarkPad two days ago to call his brother. Sam was expecting some issues with the Avengers, but he wasn't anticipating them going out of their way to avoid him.

As it turns out, though, that wasn't really on Stark's mind when he decided to disappear.

On a Wednesday afternoon two days after his video chat with Dean, Sam finds himself on the communal floor, waiting for the elevator to take him up to his room. When the doors open on his level, Sam is surprised to find somebody already inside—not an Avenger but a woman with strawberry blonde hair, holding a StarkPad and talking angrily into an earpiece. Sam almost waits for the next elevator, but before he can turn back into the lounge, the woman looks up and smiles tightly, beckoning Sam into the elevator.

"I don't care if they're busy!" The woman exclaims suddenly as Sam reaches for the button for his floor. "Then send me an intern! I just need someone who knows how to read and can understand basic law vocabulary. Although mechanical knowledge would probably be nice, too." Sam frowns at this, hand pausing inches from the button. The elevator doors slide closed, and the elevator begins to move up, and even though Sam is on board, there's no complaint from JARVIS. 

The woman sighs, pulling out her earpiece and shoving it into her pocket.

"If you don't mind me asking, ma'am, what's wrong?" Sam asks cautiously, watching at the floor number continues to increase without any sign of stopping.

"Tony's lawyers are refusing to send anyone to help me with these reports." The woman says tiredly. "They're too busy dealing with the Winchester case."

"You said you need someone who knows legal terminology and mechanics. What kind of mechanics?" Sam asks curiously—the woman is treating him surprisingly nicely, so he might as well as if he can help.

"Car." The woman says. "A Stark Industries employee was in an accident while driving one of our vehicles and is suing the company. Says the car was faulty."

"If you don't mind, ma'am, I might be able to help," Sam says hesitantly. "I'm not a lawyer by any means but I'm familiar with legalities, and I like to think I know my way around a car." Sam doesn't know mechanics nearly as well as his brother, but he's picked up quite a bit from the lessons his brother imparted on him while fixing up the Impala.

"Do you mind?" The woman asks, sounding relieved. "I could really use some help with this. Tony may be a mechanical engineer, but I very much am not."

"Of course, ma'am," Sam says, and the woman smiles, holding out her hand.

"Pepper Potts." She says, and Sam's eyes widen. This isn't some secretary or Tony's PA, this is the CEO of Stark Industries. Suddenly the high floor number makes a lot more sense.

"Sam Winchester," Sam replies politely, noting internally that Miss Potts doesn't so much as flinch at the mention of what has become a cursed name.

"JARVIS, allow Mr. Winchester access to my office." Miss Potts says.

"Right away, Miss Potts." The AI responds immediately, and the elevator doors open to reveal a spacious, modern office. Miss Potts steps into the office and heads for the large white desk and Sam is quick to follow, coming to a stop on the other side of the table beside a plush chair. The wall of windows behind Miss Potts's desk overlooks not just Manhattan but the rest of New York City as well, and at that moment, looking out over the city, Sam feels incredibly small.

"So, Mr. Winchester, how is your stay at Avengers Tower going so far?" Miss Potts asks kindly. She sets the tablet down on top of the desk and opens a drawer, pulling out an identical tablet and setting it down in front of Sam.

"It's okay," Sam says awkwardly, biting the inside of his cheek. "And please, call me Sam. My last name has gained a lot of... baggage... recently."

"Of course, Sam." Miss Potts says with a nod. "Please, call me Pepper." Sam nods hesitantly, watching as Miss Potts—Pepper—pulls up some paperwork on both tablets. Sam takes the tablet in front of him when Pepper takes hers, reading through what he quickly identifies as a crime scene crash report detailing the damage done to a white sedan registered to Stark Industries. "Have Tony and the Avengers been treating you well?" Pepper asks.

"I can't say I've really spoken to them at length," Sam says, hesitant to admit that the majority of the Avengers have been keeping him at arm's length at best and explicitly staying away at worst. "I'm sure they're busy, of course."

"Oh, yes," Pepper says, shaking her head. "Tony is away on a business trip, he left a couple of days ago and won't be back until next week." Sam nods, feeling a bit embarrassed now that he knows that Stark wasn't avoiding him, he wasn't even at the tower at all.

"I think I found something," Sam says suddenly, all thoughts of Tony Stark vacating his mind as he examines a diagram of the wrecked car's engine. "The employee, he's suing because he blames Stark Industries for the crash?"

"He claims that the car he was issued had faulty brakes," Pepper says, and Sam shakes his head.

"The brakes weren't faulty," Sam says confidently. "And even if they were, it wouldn't have mattered." Sam turns good StarkPad around, showing Pepper two images he's lined up side by side. The one on the left is a crime scene photo, and the one on the right is the diagram of the engine. "The engine is badly damaged, but the only damage to any mechanisms relating to the breaks was caused by the impact with the tree, and it probably wouldn't stop the breaks from working anyway. And look, there are no skid marks on the road, and the tires have no signs of extensive wear. Your employee didn't even try to use the brakes. He's claiming that the brakes malfunctioned because he didn't want to admit that he never even tried to use them. He probably wasn't paying attention to where he was going and crashed, then figured he could get out of paying for the damages to the car."

"How'd you know that, about the brakes?" Pepper asks curiously, pausing in the rapid typing that began as soon as Sam started talking.

"My brother," Sam admits. "Dean taught me everything I know about cars."

"Really?" Pepper asks, clearly surprised.

"Everyone always assumes that I'm the smart one because I went to college and Dean barely finished high school," Sam says. "But honestly, I'm good at humanities, English and history and stuff like that, but I'm crap at math and science. That's always been Dean's thing, not mine. He wanted to be a mechanic when we were kids like our dad was before our mom died. Dean fixed our Impala up a million times, worked on other old cars too. He's amazing at it."

"He actually sounds a lot like Tony." Pepper sounds surprised by her own comparison. "He's very much a hands-on person. He's a genius, and he has an interesting public persona, but the Tony I know is most comfortable in the lab or the garage, tinkering with his toys, whether that's his suits or his expensive cars." Sam nods, wondering—not for the first time—if Dean and Stark would get along, should they ever have the opportunity to meet. "Tell me about him," Pepper says suddenly. "I know better than anyone that the media doesn't show people for who they really are. I think I've just met the real Sam Winchester. Tell me about his brother."

"Dean is... Dean is Dean." Sam says, face growing red. Pepper laughs, not an awkward, polite laugh but a genuine one, and that's what spurs Sam on. "He's got a big personality, larger than life, but when we're alone, he's a lot quieter. People tend to underestimate him because he likes to verbally spar with people. His first weapon is always sarcasm, but he's not afraid to be violent if he has to." Sam pauses, absorbed in thought.

"He sounds like a much better person than the media makes him out to be," Pepper says gently and Sam nods, recalling the scathing editorials and angry crowds that surrounded Dean's trial—and now, that of his brother. Stark's words from the interrogation room return to Sam, then—the reminder that Dean's case was far from fair, rushed by a justice system scrambling to appease the public. It wasn't fair at all.

The people of America didn't even try to look past the darkness, the evil, the glimmer of something sinister in the green iris of a killer. They focused on the negative—on the mistakes, on the failures, on the blood-stained hands of a man who did nothing wrong. They didn't see the truth, they saw the lies. They saw what they wanted to see. And when all they knew was the red ledger, the reports, the victims, they wanted to see a villain. They wanted to see the darkness.

Sam wishes that they had seen, had _wanted_  to see the other side of Dean—not the killer but the son, not the villain but the brother. He wishes they had known about the way his hands shook after a nightmare, the way his smile tilted whenever a pretty girl flirted with him, the way his eyes shined when he laughed. Maybe if they had known about his favorite music or how he acted when he spoke to a little boy—how he spoke to a brother, to a son—they wouldn't have been so quick to lock him away behind bars built out of lies, out of blame. Maybe they would have given him the chance to defend himself. 

But they didn't because they didn't know him like Sam does—they didn't even try to. They'll never know him like Sam does.

And because of what they chose to see, what they chose to believe, Dean Winchester is in prison.

"They only saw the darkness," Sam says to Pepper, thoughts of the betrayal of his brother by the state at the forefront of his mind. "They only saw the evil, the killer, the villain. The person they wanted him to be. They wanted someone to blame, and Dean was that person." Dean was a victim in this story just as much as Sam was. Sam fell victim to the demons, but Dean fell victim to the public, to the press, to a government that wanted the easy way out of a hard situation. 

And in those corrupted hands, he never had a chance.

"Sam, I've got a meeting to get to, but please answer one question for me," Pepper says, taking the StarkPad back from Sam and returning it to the drawer she retrieved it from. "Is Tony really treating you well, or is he just ignoring you?"

"Honestly?" Sam says hesitantly, and Pepper nods sternly. "He's been kind of avoiding me, I think. I've gotten a lot of mixed signals from him. It almost seems like he wants to like me but doesn't want himself to."

"He brought you here for a reason, Sam," Pepper says, walking around her desk and stopping in front of Sam. "I know you don't know exactly what that is yet, but Tony has to be the one to tell you, not me." Sam nods, more than a little confused by the cryptic statement. Pepper sighs, smiling at Sam. "When Tony gets back from his business trip, I'll tell him to get to work on that new leg for you. When you go to his lab for scans or to try it on, ask him about the Demon." Pepper disappears into another room, and Sam heads into the elevator, aware that the conversation is over.

As the elevator heads for Sam's floor, he thinks about Pepper's suggestion, trying to figure out what she means. As far as Sam knows, Stark had nothing to do with the Demon, other than the press release he issued claiming no connection to Darkside after Sam was shot.

Sam is just going to have to wait until Stark explains it himself.

Sam returns to his room and practically collapses into bed, exhausted by the thoughts chasing each other around his head and the prospect of a day spent at court tomorrow. He's asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.

When Sam wakes the following morning and opens his closet doors, he discovers that his pathetic collection of old t-shirts are gone, replaced with an extensive selection of nice dress shirts, flannels, and t-shirts that look like they'll actually fit his frame. The dresser holds dozens of pairs of expensive, perfectly tailored jeans, shorts, and dress pants, and the top drawer has three nice watches, four pairs of cufflinks, and a small wooden box. Sam opens the box and nearly drops it in his surprise, putting one hand to his mouth as he lifts the object inside up.

It's Dean's necklace, the one Sam gave him for his birthday decades ago and returned to him a couple years ago. Dean has been wearing it since Sam returned it to him, and it never crossed Sam's mind that it would have been confiscated when Dean went to prison.

Sam slips the necklace over his head and smiles at the familiar weight resting against his chest—a piece of his brother he can keep with him until he can return the necklace once again to its rightful owner. Then Sam picks up the note that was tucked beneath the chain, carefully unfolding it and reading the neatly handwritten message inside.

_I noticed that your closet was a bit bare, so I decided to update it. The necklace was retrieved from DC and flown straight to the tower by Tony's friend James Rhodes as a favor to me. Consider it a thank you for your help yesterday._

_Pepper_


	15. Chapter 15

After his conversation with Pepper, Sam's relationship with the Avengers begins to change.

Romanoff, Barnes, and Clint all act pretty much the same—other than perhaps being more open about their support of Sam—but the rest of the Avengers actually start making an effort to include Sam in their conversations, their meals, their lives. Dr. Banner still acts cautiously around Sam, but he does begin to ask Sam questions about his abilities. Sam Wilson formally introduces himself to Sam and offers him a plate of pancakes one morning when Sam enters the communal lounge. Captain Rogers still stands stiffly, but he no longer leaves the room whenever Sam comes in. Even JARVIS has become more lenient, allowing Sam access to more floors of the tower, including a gym, Pepper's office, and the lobby—although Sam has yet to actually enter any of them.

Possibly the most surprising change comes the day Tony Stark finally returns from his business trip. Sam is sitting in the communal lounge, eating a bowl of cereal—it's five in the afternoon, but that isn't important—when Stark enters. He takes one look at Sam and Barnes, who is playing Mario Kart on the big TV—Sam was beyond surprised to discover that not only do the Avengers actively play video games, Mario Kart is a definite group favorite—and grins.

"Just the people I wanted to see." Stark proclaims, and Barnes pauses his game to glare at the enthusiastic genius.

"What do you want, Stark?" Barnes asks flatly, and Stark gestures to Sam.

"I've just spent five hours on a plane, and I want to do some tinkering, so I figured I'd get to work on that prosthetic leg I promised," Stark says, briefly grinning at Sam before turning his attention back to Barnes. "I wanted to use your arm as the blueprint, Metallica, and obviously Sam's presence is required." Stark's use of Sam's first name is not missed, and Sam frowns thoughtfully to himself, wondering how far the information of his dislike of his last name has spread—certainly within the circle of the Avengers, likely also thanks to Pepper.

"What's a Metallica?" Barnes asks with a frown and Stark just laughs, shaking his head.

"You and Cap need to get out more." He says. "Now hop to it, gentlemen. We have work to do."

* * *

Tony Stark's lab is, simply put, insane.

One entire floor of Avengers Tower—a couple of levels below Pepper's office—is dedicated to the space, which is filled with every mechanical device Sam has ever seen and a hundred more he hasn't. The walls are filled with holographic projections of blueprints, mostly for Iron Man suits—although Sam sees three for cars, one dedicated to Captain America's shield, and something that looks like Spider-Man if his suit was made out of metal—and discarded pieces of red and gold metal are scattered across various tables and chairs. There's one table in the center of the room that's void of clutter, and that's where Stark heads, tapping the top of it as Barnes and Sam trail behind and lifting his hand. To Sam's amazement, a 3D hologram of a camera follows Stark's motion, twisting with his wrist as if he were really holding it in his hand. He angles the device at Barnes, then releases it and leaves it floating in midair.

"Say cheese, Metallica," Stark says. "And don't move." Barnes stiffens, visibly uncomfortable as... something... happens. Sam honestly doesn't notice anything, but after a minute the floating camera vanishes and Stark taps the table again, this time bringing up a new image—a perfect 3D replica of Barnes's metal arm.

"Cool," Barnes says, just as in awe of the technology as Sam is.

"Thanks," Stark replies, manipulating the arm for a bit and bending the elbow and wrist joints several times. "Alright, I can work with this," He says after a minute, turning to Sam. "You aren't going to be getting any fancy vibranium like this, because the Wakandans are stingy with their metal, but I'll make your leg out of the same material as my suits. It should hold up against anything other than Barnes, Cap's shield, and Bruce if you make him particularly angry."

"Not planning on doing that," Sam says mostly to himself, shuddering at the thought of facing off against the Hulk. Something tells him that wouldn't end well for either of them.

"The first thing I need from you, Sam, is to see what I'm working with." Stark says, dropping the hologram of Barnes's arm onto the table—because apparently holograms obey the laws of physics—and turning his attention to Sam. "Show me what you've got." Sam flushes once he realizes what Stark is implying, and he wheels over to the nearest cluttered table, using the edge to pull himself up onto his left foot and then carefully taking off the pair of jeans he was wearing, leaving him in boxers. Sam sits back down and returns to the other two men—who were both very obviously trying not to look—and rolls up the right leg of his boxers with more than a little hesitation.

Stark and Barnes are trying to be respectful, that much is obvious, but just their presence in the room is enough to unnerve Sam. He isn't concerned about the leg itself, or lack thereof—that's as much of a part of him now as his hair or his eyes—but rather the skin that surrounds it. The demons who removed his leg were, in a word, brutal, and the effects of that brutality are forever written in the scars on Sam's thigh.

When Sam fully exposes the scars and leans back, Stark immediately steps forward, letting out a low whistle.

"That's rough." He comments, and Sam ducks his head in shame. "Well, can't be helped." Stark continues after a minute, turning to Barnes. "Your turn, Metallica. This looks more similar to yours than I thought." Sam looks up at this, watching as Barnes grabs the back of his shirt with his metal arm, pulling it off from the neck. Then Sam is the one staring.

Barnes's prosthetic arm is attached at the shoulder, which Sam knew, but he never realized how accurate that statement was. Large, deep scars radiate from Barnes's left shoulder toward his neck and down his torso. The metal plates on his shoulder dig into the flesh, literally securing themselves into Barnes's skin.

Sam looks down at the scars on his leg, then, wondering how much it hurts Barnes to carry that arm around every day.

"Alright, first order of business," Stark says. "Sam, what do you remember from when you got your first prosthetic?" Sam frowns at this, meeting Stark's eyes. Seeing his confusion, Stark sighs. "I mean, did you lose everything in the explosion or was some of it amputated? And how similar to Barnes's prosthetic was yours?"

"I didn't lose it all immediately," Sam says slowly, taking care not to prod the unstable memories at the back of his mind. "I believe the blast took off everything up to just below the knee. The people who kidnapped me amputated the rest." Sam shudders at that admission, memories of intense pain echoing in his mind. "I don't remember the details, but I do remember the pain. They didn't put me under or give me medication or anything. The amputation was the first torture." Stark nods but doesn't reply, waiting for Sam to answer his second question. Sam looks down at his leg once again, picturing the three iterations of prosthetic limbs he's had since his arrival in New York.

Truthfully, he didn't look at any of his legs in much detail. He didn't exactly have time while he was with the demons, and after he escaped Sam was way too screwed up to remember to take a look. So there isn't much Sam can compare Barnes's arm to.

There is one thing, though, that Sam knows is different. Something he didn't even realize until Jody got him his first replacement.

"My first leg wasn't removable," Sam admits, nodding to the patterned scars on his leg. "The leg that was destroyed when I was arrested was actually my third. About a month or so after I escaped and started living in Hell's Kitchen, I was able to reconnect with a friend of mine. She took me to a guy who owed her a favor, and he did the first examination of my leg that I ever got. Before then, I had been too messed up in the head to actually think about my leg beyond the facts that it was missing and that I wasn't sure how to use it properly. The doctor told me that it wasn't a real prosthetic, just something cobbled out of spare parts, which I had kind of figured. He also said it was attached to my leg. Literally." Sam points out the long, deep scar on the right side of his leg and Stark and Barnes both grimace sympathetically. "The leg was, at that point, in danger of snapping in two, so he rushed me into surgery and took it off. Gave me painkillers and a new shiny removable prosthetic and sent me on my way, and I was back in New York that night." Sam hesitates, recalling what else he learned from that experience—namely, his first recollection of the Lebanon bombing itself.

"Anything else we should know?" Stark asks.

"At that appointment, I also figured out why my leg didn't hurt, why it hadn't hurt before or after the surgery," Sam admits. "The people who kidnapped me went a little deeper during the amputation, cut out the nerves in my thigh. It was intensely painful at the time, but it had the benefit of stopping any pain afterward. When I say I can't feel anything below mid-thigh, it isn't an exaggeration. My actual leg extends a bit further, obviously, almost to the knee, but I don't have any pain receptors left down there." Sam pokes his knee to emphasize his point, then shakes his head. "The third prosthetic I had, the one that was destroyed, was a gift from Matt on my birthday. Bulletproof, but not human-proof."

"This one will be," Stark says. "I'm glad that those scars don't hurt, at least not physically. I think we all know that the pain of scars comes less from the physical pain and more from the reminder of where they came from." The words are heartfelt and surprisingly kind, and Sam's train of thought stops in its tracks as he tries to figure out where exactly that moment of philosophy came from. The moment is gone as soon as it began, however, as Stark claps his hands together, sharply and abruptly bringing Sam back to the present.

"Loud noises are rude," Barnes says with a glare and Stark utters a quick and distracted apology as he turns his attention back to his hologram table, pulling up a new image—this one of a prosthetic leg.

"This is the scan JARVIS took of your leg when you came to dinner as Darkside," Stark explains when he sees the look of surprise on Sam's face. "I'm using it as a baseline to get your measurements right. Along with the scan of your other leg, of course." Sam just nods, accepting that Stark probably has a lot of information on him saved that he'll never know about—although to be fair, the fact that JARVIS scanned his prosthetic leg that night was something Sam did know, he just forgot about it in the chaos of the following days.

"Hey!" Barnes exclaims suddenly, and Sam turns, watching in disbelief as a machine with one claw-like arm grabs Barnes's metal arm and starts pulling it backward, taking Barnes with it.

"Dum-E, drop it!" Stark orders in a tone of voice strikingly similar to how most people scold their dogs. To Sam's surprise, the robot immediately releases Barnes's arm, backing away with a chirp that sounds a little bit dejected. "That's Dum-E, a robot AI that I built in college," Stark explains with a smirk. Sam watches the robot warily as it approaches him, poking him experimentally in the arm twice before turning around and heading back to whatever corner of the room it came from.

"You built an AI in college?" Sam asks, surprised.

"Three, actually. Dum-E was just the first." Stark says nonchalantly. "Butterfingers and U are a little more responsible, for the most part. Dum-E is too curious for his own good."

"Bad robot," Barnes says, glaring at Dum-E as it makes another approach, arm outstretched.

"Dum-E, why don't you make yourself useful and get me some mercury," Stark says. "I'm going to start working on your leg, Sam. You and Barnes are free to head out." It's phrased as an offer but it's unquestionably more of a suggestion, and Barnes is quick to turn tail and walk out the door, evidently at his wits end with Stark's touchy robot. Sam follows him more slowly—mostly on account of his wheelchair—and pauses in the doorway, taking a moment to examine the lab one more time.

It's because of this extra moment he takes that Sam is still in the room when Dum-E delivers the requested mercury to Stark—and promptly spills it all over the genius's shirt.

"Agh!" Stark exclaims angrily, dropping the test tube he just picked up and jumping away from Dum-E, who scuttles away with a series of frenetic beeps and whirs that somehow sound both excited and ashamed. There's mercury coating the front of Stark's t-shirt, and he's quick to take notice of it, grabbing the back of his shirt similarly to how Barnes did and pulling it off, then tossing it into a corner of the room. Dum-E goes after the shirt, likely to take it somewhere a bit safer, but Sam's attention remains on Stark—and more specifically on the prominent scars that radiate out from the center of his chest where his famous arc reactor once sat.

Sam turns and heads into the elevator, asking JARVIS to take him back to his floor and then allowing himself to get lost in his thoughts. He knew about the arc reactor—everyone knew about the arc reactor—but, just like Barnes's arm, Sam had no idea how much damage was done to Stark in the process of putting it in his chest. And just like the rest of the world, Sam knows the story of how Stark got that arc reactor in the first place, about Afghanistan, about the bomb and the shrapnel and the terrorists. He doubts that he knows the full story, doubts that anyone but Stark does, but he knows enough to see the parallels between Iron Man's origin story and Darkside's.

He knows enough to understand why Stark said what he did about the real pain of the deep web of scars he, Sam, and Barnes all bear on their skin.

The Avengers, Sam remembers once again, are human. They think, they feel, and they hurt, just like everyone else. Just like Sam.

Tony Stark is a lot more like Sam than he ever could have imagined. They both wear big, ugly, jagged scars on their bodies that serve as constant reminders of a horrible experience that made them who they are today. Made them the superheroes they try to be.

And for both of them, those big, ugly, jagged scars on their bodies pale in comparison to the ones in their minds.


	16. Chapter 16

Two days after Tony Stark begins working on Sam's new prosthetic leg—an endeavor Stark claimed would take him about a week—the Avengers arere called away on a short mission in India that ends up turning into a chance to take down an entire terrorist organization that may or may not be lead by an alien—Sam wasn't exactly briefed before or after they left. All he knows is that everyone but Bucky Barnes and Pepper Potts—who was already away on business—left on the mission, leaving Sam alone with Barnes in the Tower for at least the next couple of days. Sam doesn't have another court date for a week, which is probably for the best because as far as he's aware Barnes has yet to leave the Tower since his own arrival several months before.

Two days after the Avengers leave, a doctor comes to the Tower to remove the cast from Sam's arm and fit him for a pair of crutches. Barnes is in the room for the entire process despite his obvious discomfort at the sight of the medical saw, and Sam wonders several times if the assassin's presence is for Sam's benefit or the doctor's. He's betting on the latter.

As soon as the doctor enters the elevator, Barnes disappears as well, and Sam awkwardly wobbles over to the fridge—he's been on crutches before, but never with only one leg, and he underestimated how unbalanced he'd feel—and grabs the yogurt he's been craving since someone—likely Captain Rogers—moved it out of his reach.

Sam grabs a spoon as well before heading back to the breakfast bar with both items gripped carefully between the fingers not wrapped around the crutches. When he sits down, Sam carefully leans the crutches against the stool beside him—the last thing he needs is for them to fall to the floor when there's literally only one other person in the Tower who can get them for him.

Sam is all too used to being left alone for long periods of time, but lately, his tenuous grasp on his thoughts has started to waver when he has nothing to distract him. Thoughts of Dean, of Lebanon, of the Avengers, start swirling in his mind and Sam bows his head, fighting against the whirlpool of imposing emotions that could, should Sam allow them to control him, cause significant damage to the communal lounge.

So it's to Sam's immense relief when Barnes re-enters the room, disturbing Sam's not-so-peaceful quiet. The relief is quick to fade, however, when Sam realizes that Barnes isn't walking toward him so much as storming, his face set into an expression of anger and exasperation. Barnes bypasses Sam entirely and heads for the bar—the one stocked with alcohol, not cereal—where he grabs a bottle of what Sam is pretty sure is straight vodka or maybe even something stronger. Sam watches in quiet amusement as the assassin upends the bottle and starts chugging, only to groan and slam it against the bar with enough force to shatter both the glass bottle and the surface of the bar—which Sam is 99% sure is either steel-plated or just pure steel. It's at this point that Sam decides that whatever inspired Barnes to come in here and start drinking hard alcohol at 4 in the afternoon, it's probably a little bit more severe than just a 101-year-old man in desperate need of a drink.

Sam has no idea if Barnes is the type to like company when he's in a bad mood, but Sam is, and Barnes isn't the only one who could really go for a drink right now. With that thought in mind, Sam grabs his crutches and heads for the bar, attempting to be at least courteously quiet but failing miserably as his crutches click against the tile floors of the bar area. As he gets closer, Sam is able to make out the words Barnes is mumbling to himself, and he's forced to bite back a smile.

"Stupid serum." Barnes is cursing when Sam arrives at the bar, his head in his hands. "Forgot I can't get drunk."

"What's up?" Sam probes carefully, sitting down a couple of seats away from Barnes to give him space but still have a reasonable conversation should the assassin want it. Barnes groans again, although Sam is relatively sure that his question wasn't the cause.

"I've got a trial coming up," Barnes explains. "For all the shit I did as the Winter Soldier. Stark's lawyers and Murdock have been talking with me, and they all agree that it's gonna be tough."

"Well, you've spent pretty much the entire time I've been here believing that I don't deserve to go to jail." Sam points out. "And if I don't, you certainly don't."

"You're different, kid." Barnes protests. "You didn't actually do any of the shit you're being accused of. I did. It was still me, I just had someone else giving the orders."

"Matt is a fantastic lawyer, you know," Sam says hesitantly. "He can probably use the mind control explanation. It worked for Jessica Jones."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a private investigator or a pretty lady," Barnes replies. "I've got nothing going for me in the public's eye."

"You're an Avenger," Sam says. "You're Captain America's best friend. That's got to count for something."

"Not enough," Barnes says pessimistically, shaking his head. "I'm still a killer." Sam hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. At the moment, none of the Avengers know anything about Sam beyond what's already public knowledge, the real story of Lebanon, and his activities as Darkside. Sam knows that there's no way that will remain true forever, but is he really ready to reveal any more of his strange—and extremely dark—past?

The way Barnes is sitting, curled ever so slightly in on himself, makes Sam's decision an easy one.

"So am I," Sam says, and Barnes looks up for the first time, meeting Sam's eyes with a gaze filled with curiosity. "You aren't the only one who was brainwashed into killing. I was too, in a way. Except I didn't have any orders. I killed people because, at the time, I thought it was convenient for me. And I regret every single death. And I remember every single one, too." Sam pauses, looking down at his hands, which are shaking slightly. "I know how it feels to put your hands around someone's throat and feel the life leaving their body. I know how it feels to look someone in the eye and shoot them in the stomach. But I also know it wasn't my fault." Sam hesitates, then, swallowing hard. "Or at least, that's what my brother has been telling me ever since it happened."

"Not your fault," Barnes says sternly, and Sam nods.

"Not your fault, either." He replies. "The jury will see that, you just have to be willing to prove it."

"I can't talk about that, though," Barnes says. "Hell, I still have to get Steve to get me things from the fridge because the cold gives me flashbacks." Sam nods understandingly, mind drawn to the worries about his own trial that are always at the back of his mind. He hasn't had to testify himself yet, hasn't had to listen to witness or victim testimony about Lebanon, but he's terrified that when that day comes, he'll have a sensory attack and expose his abilities to the world.

That isn't what Barnes needs to hear, though. He doesn't need Sam's problems on top of his own. He needs to know he's not alone.

"I get it," Sam says. "I had a guy pulling my strings from the inside, once, in a way. He must have had an internal body temperature somewhere below freezing. It's gotten better now, but for a while, after I ran into him again a couple of years ago, even air conditioning sent shivers down my spine, and Dean and I had to avoid any state north of Missouri for months." It's something Sam has never shared with anyone but his brother before, but the effect is worth it—Barnes relaxes a bit, nodding to Sam with something akin to gratefulness in his eyes.

"Pulling my strings," Barnes repeats Sam's phrase of choice to describe Lucifer's possession—not that Barnes knows that—and shakes his head. "I'm trying, ya know? Trying to convince me that this really wasn't my fault. I'm working on it, but it's hard. These guys"—he gestures to the Tower as a whole, referencing its currently absent occupants—"are trying to help, too. And Steve said something the other day that actually kinda did help me." Barnes pauses, looking at Sam thoughtfully. "Ya know, maybe it'll help you." Sam nods, watching curiously as Barnes turns his entire upper body in Sam's direction, giving the one-legged vigilante his full attention.

"Yeah?" Sam asks after a minute, urging a clearly hesitant Barnes to continue.

"He said that I wasn't the same as the rest of them." Barnes finally says. "Not 'cause of what I did, but 'cause of what I was forced to do. Steve chose to take the serum, chose to fight the war, chose to crash the plane. Stark chose to keep making those suits and to fight wars in them. Natasha and Barton chose to join SHIELD, chose to use the skills they had to protect people. But I never chose anything like that. The only thing I ever chose was to follow Steve. The rest of my life, the fall and the arm and the Winter Soldier, I didn't choose any of it. Steve said that since I didn't choose it, it didn't count." Barnes doesn't sound too terribly sure of himself, but he sounds like he's trying to convince himself, trying to force himself to believe his own words so that maybe Sam will believe them, too. "This stuff now," Barnes continues, "now that I'm back in control of my own head, this is what counts. I think the same applies to you." Sam frowns, shaking his head.

"I don't-"

"Tell me that you chose to lose your leg." Barnes cuts Sam's protest off with a sharp gesture from his metal hand. "Tell me that you chose to be kidnapped, to be tortured, to be experimented on. Tell me that those powers you have were given to you because you asked for them. The second any of that is true, you'll be responsible for what happened to you. Until then, you're only responsible for what you've done since. And if I remember correctly, the first thing you did when you were given a choice was put on a mask and become a superhero."

"Didn't you do the same thing?" Sam points out, and Barnes nods, looking a lot more confident in himself than he did a moment ago.

"You and I are a lot more alike than we think we are, kid," Barnes says with a shy smile. "The Avengers, they're helping me get back on my feet. It's just gonna take a while." He pauses, considering something for a moment. "It's weird, you know?" He finally ventures. "Sometimes I wake up in the morning, and I think it's 1944, think I'm going to see Steve at the door telling me it's time to pack up camp and head for another HYDRA camp. Then I hear Stark talking to JARVIS, or Dum-E, or Thor, and I remember that it ain't ever gonna be that simple again." Sam nods solemnly, remembering for the first time in a while that Bucky Barnes, like Captain Rogers, is a man out of time. Barnes looks a bit dejected by his own change of topics, so Sam decides to take a page out of Dean's book and lighten the mood.

"I can't say I've ever experienced life in 1944, but I did get to see 1978 once, and it was pretty interesting," Sam admits with a laugh that isn't nearly as forced as he was expecting it to be.

"Seriously?" Barnes asks, raising an eyebrow. "Were you even alive then?"

"Nope, I was born in '83," Sam admits, figuring that with all the things Barnes has been through, there's a lot he's going to be willing to accept if Sam phrases it the right way. "Dean and I have a friend—had a friend who could time travel." Sam frowns and quickly corrects himself on his verb tenses—Castiel may not be dead, but at the moment Sam wouldn't really consider him a friend—before continuing. "We went back in time to stop someone from killing our parents before we could be born." Sam's smile wavers. "I met my mom in person for the first time in my life that day." He doesn't mention the ghost that saved him a couple years before the time travel—he's still not sure that was really his mom, anyway.

"Damn," Barnes says, punctuating the statement with a low whistle. "That's tough."

"I almost wish I hadn't if I'm honest," Sam says, thoughts shifting toward the mother who came back to life two and a half years ago just to die again. "If I had never gotten to meet her, I never would have known what it was that I missed as a kid."

"Makes sense," Barnes says wistfully. "It took Steve almost a year after he defrosted to work up the courage to talk to Peggy Carter again." He pauses, shaking his head. "I didn't get that. My entire family was dead by the time I got my memories back. All I had was Steve."

"All I had was Dean," Sam replies.

"Ah, I guess we're both screwed up, huh, kid," Barnes says with a smile.

"Most definitely, Sergeant Barnes," Sam replies, returning the smile. Barnes cocks his head to the side, then barks out a loud, sharp laugh.

"I haven't been a Sergeant in a very long time." He says. "Please, just call me Bucky."

"Of course," Sam replies immediately, happy to have found a friend in the surprisingly wise assassin. "You know, if you ever need someone to talk to about brainwashing and other terrible life experiences, you know where to find me," Sam adds, half joking and half completely serious—if this conversation has taught him anything, it's that Bucky Barnes finds conversation just as helpful as Sam does. "I'm glad we talked, Bucky," Sam says, and Bucky smiles warmly, nodding.

"Me too, kid." He replies. "And I'm glad I could help out with the leg." He gestures to the tied-up end of Sam's jeans. "I know from experience that being down a limb really sucks."

"It's okay," Sam says, shrugging. "I've gotten fairly good at adapting in my lifetime." Bucky laughs again, nodding.

"Haven't we all." He says, standing and rounding the bar. He grabs a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, setting the glasses down on the bar between him and Sam and pouring some whiskey into each of them.

"I thought you couldn't get drunk," Sam comments when Bucky lifts his glass, gesturing for Sam to grab his own. They knock them together and Bucky downs his drink in one gulp, his grin wide.

"I don't think I need to anymore." He admits as Sam takes a small sip of his whiskey, realizing that he doesn't really need a drink anymore, either.

Every day, Sam learns something that makes the Avengers seem just a little bit more human. As Bucky pours himself another drink, a smile stretching from ear to ear and shining in his eyes, Sam figures that maybe this whole trial situation isn't entirely a bad thing.

After all, without it, he never would have gotten to talk to Dean. He never would have gotten a new leg, or a roof over his head, or all of the luxuries that the Tower has to offer.

And he never would have gotten the chance to find friends in the most unusual of places.


	17. Chapter 17

Three days after his discussion with Bucky, the Avengers return from their—successful—mission to India. Both Sam Wilson and Clint are injured, the former with a broken arm and the latter a concussion, but the rest of the team made it out relatively unscathed, if exhausted—Dr. Banner, upon arrival, claimed a need to sleep for a week and Sam hasn't actually seen him since. Pepper arrives a couple of hours later, and by the following day, Sam can sense a clear difference in the attitudes of the Avengers toward him. He isn't sure if it's Bucky's influence or Pepper's—or even a combination of the two—but all of the Avengers are treating Sam less like an unwelcome and temporary houseguest and more like a member of the team. He isn't being invited to game night yet, but he is being invited to lunch, so it's definitely an improvement.

The night after the Avengers' return, Sam finds himself in the communal lounge, eating a bowl of cereal at the bar—it's 10 pm, but the Avengers didn't have a group dinner tonight, likely because they've all been sleeping almost constantly since they got back. It's strange, Sam thinks, that the Avengers are starting to act like humans around him. There's still clearly a level of discomfort, but Stark doesn't walk around in a suit jacket and pressed pants anymore, and Bucky Barnes has taken to abandoning shoes in favor of what Sam is pretty sure are some kind of fuzzy socks. It's strange, but it's far from unwelcome. With Dean gone, Sam didn't realize how much he'd missed the casual presence of another person in the room.

Sam's never done great on his own, an unexpected result of a lifetime of living in close quarters with his brother and his father. He very rarely found himself without Dean as a child or as an adult, and whenever he was without his brother—whether it be at Stanford or during the months following one of Dean's deaths—he quickly found himself attached to someone else, usually a woman. Now, however, with his status as a criminal, there's no real way for Sam to get a girlfriend, and he isn't particularly interested in finding one anymore, either—girls he dates tend to either end up dead or evil, after all, and he's had enough of both to last him seven lifetimes. And thanks to Asmodeus and his demons, all of Sam's fears have been compounded, turned from minor irritations into phobias that can quickly destroy Sam's focus and launch him into a full-blown sensory attack. And with abilities that stem from his emotions, any instance of increased fear can have dangerous consequences for any people or objects around him.

Sam has never mentioned any of this to the Avengers—either those he'd consider his friends or those he wouldn't—but it seems like the ones closest to him have picked up on his need to be around someone else, because since the Avengers returned yesterday morning Sam hasn't been alone at all, other than on his own floor.

Even now, Clint Barton is sharing the communal lounge with Sam, his presence unobtrusive—he's on the other side of the room, watching TV—but very welcome to the hazy whirlwind of thoughts that is Sam's mind.

"Tensions across Manhattan are rising once again as beloved local vigilante Darkside disappears." The voice floats over to the bar and filters through Sam's thoughts and Sam jerks away from his dinner like it burned him, turning around with wide eyes. Clint is sitting upside down on the couch, his legs hooked over the back, and watching the news. But that doesn't concern Sam nearly as much as what the anchors are saying. "Darkside was last seen on October 1st, nearly four weeks ago. Unlike his last absence, the vigilante was not gravely injured, but as weeks continue to pass without any sign of the yellow-eyed vigilante, the public is beginning to fear that something terrible may have happened to him." Sam watches, face paling, as an array of images of Darkside flash across the screen. They depict the vigilante the day he first named himself, when he saved Karen Page from falling to her death, and of course, the infamous video of the shooting at the bank.

"In other news, the trial of suspected terrorist Sam Winchester, accused of the bombing of Lebanon, Kansas, last year is in full swing. Court proceedings will resume tomorrow with the prosecution's first wit-" The anchor's speech is cut off as the screen goes black, and Sam glances at Clint, who points to the doorway. Sam follows the archer's finger and finds Natasha Romanoff heading over to him.

"You looked like you saw a ghost," Romanoff says simply, her tone as blunt and cold as usual but her eyes soft. Sam nods hesitantly as Clint rights himself on the couch, leaning over the arm to look Sam in the eye.

"I just... I didn't realize it had been so long." Sam admits. "It doesn't feel like I've been here for a month." He hasn't, technically—it's been nearly a month since Sam was arrested, but he didn't move into Avengers Tower until several days after that—but the fact that four weeks have gone by is insane. "And that story, and the one that came after it, reminded me that I stopped going out as Darkside when I was arrested. Both of those are big stories, and it won't take long for someone to figure out the connection." Romanoff and Clint both straighten a bit at this, connecting the same dots that Sam did

"Darkside disappeared the same day Sam Winchester was arrested," Clint says, shaking his head. "That's one hell of a coincidence." Sam nods in agreement, biting the inside of his cheek.

"I don't think anyone has seen the connection quite yet because we spread the story that I was arrested right after arriving in New York," Sam explains. "But that's not going to hold forever."

"Well, the only way to rectify that would be to give the public a Darkside sighting." Romanoff comments.

"Yeah, but there's a couple of problems with that," Sam says. "For one thing, I'm still down a leg, and I haven't done so much as a jumping jack in a month. I'm in no shape to stop a mugging, much less fight the Judge. Secondly, there's no way Captain Rogers and Stark will go for it."

"Stark told you when he got you from the police station that we would let you fight crime as Darkside," Romanoff says—Sam doesn't even begin to question how she knows that—as she crosses her arms. "We aren't going to let him back down from that."

"Hey JARVIS, call Stark and Cap down here," Clint says. "Tell them to make it snappy."

"Right away, Agent Barton," JARVIS replies, and Sam could swear the AI's words sound almost teasing. JARVIS is true to his word because less than a minute later the elevator door is opening and Stark and Rogers are stepping into the communal lounge.

"What's up, Birdbrain?" Stark asks. "Why the summons?"

"We're coming up on a month with Sam at the Tower, which is a month without Darkside on the streets," Clint says without preamble. "People are starting to get suspicious."

"You need to let Sam fight some bad guys before anyone figures out that he and Darkside are the same person," Romanoff adds. Stark and Rogers turn their attention to Sam, who decides that his best course of action is to keep his mouth shut and let the two Avengers argue with their teammates.

"Regardless of your feelings about his innocence"—Sam doesn't miss the look Rogers gives him with that statement—"Sam is in the middle of a trial, and we can't just let him run around the city."

"Sam is innocent," Clint says with a frown. "And he won't be running around the city. He'll be saving people in it, stopping bad guys. You know, all that stuff you praised him for before you knew he was Sam." It's a point Sam never considered, that Rogers and Stark and the rest of the more hesitant Avengers were fans of Darkside before they found out that he was also Sam Winchester. But it's also a valid one, and Rogers must realize that, too, because he hesitates, rubbing his neck.

"Nonetheless, we can't just let him leave the Tower," Stark says after a minute. "Our agreement with the FBI requires Sam to remain inside the Tower on the private floors unless he's at court or accompanied by one of us."

"So accompany him." A new voice joins the argument and Sam turns to see Bucky Barnes and Pepper Potts striding into the room side by side, each of their gazes fixed on one of the two naysayers. Bucky is the one who spoke, and he levels a quick glare at Stark before turning his attention to Rogers, who frowns when he sees the fire in his best friend's eyes. "If you don't want Sam to be fighting crime unsupervised, just supervise him. It's not hard to have an Avenger tail him, given he doesn't teleport halfway across Manhattan."

"Plus, since when do you care about honoring your agreements with the FBI?" Pepper points out, her question directed at Stark, who ducks his head as his face reddens. "Sam has been doing good work as Darkside, which you obviously knew when you invited him to dinner last month. So what if he's on trial? We know he didn't set those bombs in Lebanon. You're the one who said so, Tony." Sam can see it in Stark's eyes, then, the real reason behind his hesitation, and suddenly he's forced into a memory of when he first arrived in Hell's Kitchen when Daredevil offered to train him, and he declined.

Matt believed Sam then when he said he didn't bomb Lebanon, but that wasn't what mattered. It was everything else on Sam's rap sheet, the murders and the kidnappings, that made the Devil of Hell's Kitchen hesitate. And it's the same thing here. The Avengers know Sam didn't set those bombs, but they don't see the truth about everything else. They may not see Sam Winchester as a terrorist, but they still see him as a killer.

That's why Clint, Romanoff, and Bucky were so quick to come to Sam's defense, too, Sam realizes with a heavy heart. They're secret agents and assassins, people who became heroes long after they became killers, people who took lives before they saved them. They're like Sam, in a way, and even though they think he's a killer, they know that he can become a hero because they did, too.

No one really believes that Sam is innocent. Some of them are just more willing to accept his mistakes than others.

And the worst part is, Sam could tell them all the truth. He could explain what really happened in Lebanon, what really happened in the first 34 years of Sam's life before that point. He could tell them about the demons who gave him his powers and the demons who killed his mother. He could tell them about the Leviathan and the shapeshifters and the vampires and the ghosts. The Avengers deal with aliens and sentient robots on a weekly basis, they'd probably accept the supernatural—or at least, be more open to it than most people. But Sam can't tell them. Or rather, he won't.

Won't take away that small bit of innocence that the world's mightiest heroes still have, that one piece of the world that they're still blissfully ignorant of. The Avengers have enough on their plate with the aliens they're fighting, and Sam has already piled more on with his trial and his very presence at the Tower. He can't add more on top of what he already has. He can't become more of a burden than he already is.

So instead of explaining the truth and proving his own innocence, not just in Lebanon but in everything, Sam stays silent.

And something inside of him breaks just a little bit when no one even asks him to try.

"You two should be lawyers," Stark comments, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "That was a compelling argument. And, now that I think about it, not a bad idea." He turns to Rogers, nodding to the taller man. "Whaddya say? Sam gets to go outside in a mask and beat up muggers as long as he has a babysitter?"

"I'll take the first night. We can rotate." Rogers says rather than voicing his agreement outright. "We'll start small, a couple of hours a night, then go from there."

"Tony, how soon can you have that prosthetic leg finished?" Pepper asks.

"If I start now and don't stop working until it's done—barring bathroom and coffee breaks, of course—I can have it finished by midnight," Stark says confidently.

"And if I make you get enough sleep tonight to actually create a functional, good leg?" Pepper says, planting her hands on her hips and sending Stark a glare that dares him to challenge her.

"Eleven am, noon at the latest," Stark says.

"Good, that will give us time to test it out," Romanoff says with a grin.

"What?" Sam asks, turning his attention to the assassin along with the rest of the room's occupants.

"You said yourself that you haven't really been fighting or exercising this past month," Romanoff explains. "You're going to be getting a brand new limb, you have to practice with it before you go out in the field or you're going to get shot." Sam decides not to mention that he can stop a bullet with his mind or even just teleport out of the way. "Plus, I'm curious about what you can do. So after Stark gets you that leg, I want you to meet me in the gym for some sparring." Romanoff's voice conveys the same warning that Pepper's glare did, somehow even more potently despite her calm expression and relaxed posture. There's just something about Romanoff that unnerves Sam to his core.

It's a feeling he's very much missed.

"Sounds good to me," Sam says with a grin, holding out a hand. Romanoff shakes it sharply, offering Sam a smirk that actually looks a little bit genuine. Now that the details of the following day have been sorted out, the Avengers begin to filter from the room one by one, starting with Romanoff and ending with Clint. Sam is left alone in the communal lounge, but he figures it's because everyone knows he's going to head up to his floor anyway, which he does almost immediately. As the elevator starts to move, Sam thinks about what he knows about Romanoff and her fighting style, and what his best plan of attack against it would be.

When he reaches his room, Sam changes into a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt and sits down on the edge of his bed, realizing with a grin that for the first time in a while, he's genuinely looking forward to the day to come.


	18. Chapter 18

The first time Sam took a step, he stumbled.

He was a little under a year old when he first pulled himself to his feet, hands gripping the sheets of a motel room bed, and waddled experimentally toward his big brother. According to Dean—who viewed the memory fondly and told it to Sam several times throughout his life—Sam made it one step before he tripped over his too-big feet and very nearly face-planted on the dirty carpet. Dean rushed to save him but Sam managed to right himself, and he went right on walking, wobbling over to his big brother while their father looked on.

Since that first day and that first step, Sam rarely stumbled when he walked. Even when he was severely injured, his paces were steady and his gait constant. But today, after Tony helps Sam put on his new prosthetic leg and pulls him to his feet, Sam stumbles just like he did when he was a year old, learning how to walk for the first time.

Sam knows that he hasn't walked in a month, knows that even before that he got used to using ill-fitting prosthetics that weighed too much and bent too far. He knows that he has to learn how to walk the right way again, now that his legs actually match, but knowing that doesn't stop the blood that rushes to his face as Sam trips over his too-big feet and very nearly face-plants on the floor of Tony's lab. Just like that first time, someone rushes to catch him—it's Tony this time, but that doesn't stop Sam from seeing the similarities—and just like that first time Sam manages to right himself. Unlike that first time, Sam can't find the strength inside of him to take another step.

For most of Sam's life, he lived by persevering. Now, he just lives by living.

"Come on, Sam." Romanoff's voice urges Sam on, and he looks up to find the assassin standing in the doorway of the lab—as far as Sam is aware, she doesn't have access to this floor, but that would never stop her—with her arms crossed. "We're supposed to be training, remember? I don't have all day." She sounds bored, sounds annoyed, but her eyes are soft, and Sam knows that she's telling him precisely what he needs to hear. It's love the Winchester way, all rough edges and orders and usually an insult or two wrapped up in an invisible bow. It's familiar, and it's _right_ , and Sam isn't entirely surprised that Romanoff knows it. She knows everything, after all, or at least she _thinks_ she does—and it gives Sam a degree of pleasure to realize that he's managed to keep one of the most important aspects of his life, his relationship with the supernatural world, a secret from the woman who knows everyone's secrets.

"I'm coming," Sam says with a determination he didn't have a moment before, striding toward the woman who at that moment looks strikingly like his big brother. And just like that first time, Sam doesn't stumble again.

When Sam steps into the elevator beside Romanoff, he could swear he sees pride shining in her eyes.

* * *

The gym floor, Sam realizes as soon as the elevator doors open, is _insane_.

He's had access to this floor since his conversation with Pepper, but since he didn't have all of his limbs he never saw a reason to visit it. Now, he almost wishes he had because he's never seen anything quite like this.

The gym is more like a small city, stretching across an entire floor and entirely open except for a line of smaller rooms on the left-hand side. The walls are metal—vibranium courtesy of Wakanda, Romanoff briefly mentions—as is the floor, and most of the metal fixtures in the room, whether it be the chains holding up the punching bags or the weights, are coated in the same material. There's something that looks like a giant jungle gym on the wall opposite the smaller rooms, stretching all the way up to the ceiling—which by Sam's estimate is about 25 feet up—and the far wall has a section of shooting ranges, which are by far the most ordinary thing here. The center of the room is occupied mostly by large square mats, some sunk into the ground and others raised like boxing rings. They're all roped off, and it's to one of the raised rings that Romanoff leads Sam, ducking under the ropes and heading to the far corner.

"Hello, Sam," JARVIS says when Sam climbs into the ring, shedding his flannel and draping it over the ropes. "Welcome to the gym."

"It's interesting," Sam replies, glancing at one of the lower mats and noting that there are cameras built into columns in the four corners. The same can't be said for the raised mats, and Sam is quick to voice this thought to Romanoff.

"The raised mats are for sparring with someone else," Romanoff explains. "The ones at ground level are for solo training. They've got a bunch of training simulations Stark created programmed into them. You tell JARVIS which one you want, and he loads some hard light holograms for you to fight." Sam just nods, unable to entirely picture what Romanoff is saying—his training consisted solely of hand-to-hand combat with Dean in the living area of their motel rooms and shooting tin cans off of fence posts until the brothers found the bunker when they switched to using mats and target ranges. Never anything with holograms, that's for sure.

"So, what's the plan?" Sam asks as Romanoff crosses the ring and offers him some tape. Her hands are already wrapped, and Sam is quick to bind his own—it's been over a year since he last sparred with taped knuckles, but he's done it so often throughout his life that he can practically wrap his hands with muscle memory.

"Depends on what you think you can do," Romanoff replies, taking the tape back from Sam and giving his hands an appraising look. "You're pretty good at that for someone who hasn't sparred in a year."

"I've been wrapping my hands since I was eight," Sam says, shaking his head. "It's not really something you forget."

"Well, what kind of fighting do you know?" Romanoff asks. "Without powers or weapons, how do you fight?"

"My dad was a Marine," Sam says. "Most of what I know I either learned from him or learned from Dean who learned from him. He taught us how to fight military, but also kind of dirty." Monsters don't tend to fight like a Marine, but they love to cheat, so Sam has learned a lot of tricks that would probably get him kicked out of the UFC.

"So you're a tough fighter, and probably not a fair one." Romanoff infers, and Sam nods. "How about this: let's have an all-out sparring match just so I can see what you can do. No abilities if you can avoid it, just straight up hand-to-hand. No out of bounds areas. If you punch me in the head, I can take it. Just try to avoid breaking bones if at all possible."

"When does the match end?" Sam asks, and Romanoff grins.

"When somebody wins." She replies, raising her fists and getting into a fighting stance. Sam copies the motion, only for Romanoff to immediately relax, cocking her head to one side. "Oh, and by the way, it's Natasha. Stop calling me Romanoff." Sam just nods, a ghost of a grin forming on his face as Natasha takes advantage of what she probably thought would be a moment of confusion to strike out without warning. Sam—who is far too used to Dean using similar tactics—easily avoids the attack, dancing backwards with a grace borne out of instinct and a speed that comes from years of fighting creatures with strength beyond even that of Captain Rogers or the Hulk—monsters that require a tactic of avoidance rather than confrontation, because if they catch you there's no way you're coming out alive. Disbelief flashes across Natasha's face for an instant before she strikes again, this time aiming for Sam's legs rather than his center of mass. Once again, Sam dodges, this time jumping into the air to clear Natasha's sweeping leg and landing square on his feet just as Natasha finishes her arc. Sam swings his arm and catches Natasha in the left shoulder, sending her a few steps backward as she finds her balance without falling.

"Sorry," Sam says immediately, and Natasha scowls, shaking her head.

"Don't apologize." She orders sternly. "I told you to hit me, and you did." She punctuates her statement with a left hook that connects with Sam's chin. His head flies back, and his teeth clack together, but he shakes it off fast, ignoring the way the world spins—or, more accurately, adjusting to it and moving forward. Natasha's next attack is a flurry of kicks that Sam avoids, followed by two punches, one after the other, that he doesn't. The punches send Sam backward into the ropes, and he grunts when Natasha sends a fist into his stomach, forcing the air out of his lungs. Without even giving himself time to take a breath, Sam lunges forward, rugby tackling Natasha. The pair hit the mat, and Sam tries to use his strength to hold Natasha down, but she's quick to use her slight figure—and a vicious elbow to the neck—to slip free of Sam's hold. Natasha tries to flip Sam onto his back, but he jumps to his feet faster than Natasha can grab him, dodging the next three attacks and delivering two unsuccessful blows of his own.

The sparring match goes on for another five minutes before the ankle of Sam's left leg twists awkwardly, putting him off-balance just long enough for Natasha to send him to the ground and get her elbow into his windpipe. Sam taps out, and Natasha stands, backing into her corner and allowing Sam to sit up and examine his ankle. A grin spreads across his face when he realizes that for the first time, his prosthetic leg outlasted his real one.

"You're good," Natasha says when Sam stands, taking the water bottle the assassin offers him. Sam unscrews the lid and downs half of the bottle, eyeing Natasha curiously as she takes a drink of her own bottle. "You're a lot faster than I was expecting. A lot more graceful, too."

"I have experience with fighting things that are too strong to let them get their hands on you," Sam admits. "One punch means game over." Natasha raises an eyebrow at this but doesn't comment, choosing instead to change the subject entirely.

"You said you started sparring when you were 8. Why?" Sam hesitates, contemplating how in depth he should go. He knows that inevitably, the Avengers will learn the truth about his past—knows that even if they don't all learn about the supernatural at some point, Natasha probably will—but he still wants to cling to the sense of normalcy he gets from being among people with outlandish but human experiences who think that he also went through something bizarre but human. The Avengers are probably the only people in the world Sam could tell part of the truth to who would believe for a second that it was the whole truth. And as much as he hates to lie to the people who are quickly become friends, Sam doesn't want to ruin what he has.

"My mom died when I was 6 months old," Sam says, and Natasha simply nods, obviously already aware of that fact—thanks to Lebanon, the whole world is. "My dad worked as a traveling salesman after that, so we moved around a lot." It's an outright lie, and Natasha is clearly suspicious—Sam is a great liar but Natasha is an even better one—but Sam is pretty sure she isn't going to call him on it like she might have back when they first met. A lot of things have changed since then. "Once I got old enough, he figured he could make more money if he left Dean and me in one place and traveled around a few towns on his own for a couple of weeks. He didn't want to just leave us unprotected, so he taught us how to fight before he left. And while he was gone, we didn't really have much else to do, so we started practicing with each other."

"Twenty-five years of sparring with your brother." Natasha comments. "You must be pretty evenly matched."

"No one knows Dean's fighting style better than I do, and vice versa," Sam says. "It makes sparring a lot harder because we both have to try to mix it up, or no one ever wins. It also makes any time we actually get into a real fight a pain in the ass."

"How many times have you had to fight your brother?" Natasha asks curiously, unwrapping one of her hands and adjusting the tape.

"Too many," Sam replies simply, biting the inside of his cheek. "We've gotten into several fights over the years, and every once in a while one of us gets into something we shouldn't. I don't think either of us has ever won. Just walked away." Sam shudders involuntarily as his mind offers up images of the fight he had with Dean after he found out about the demon blood, of the match with Dean when he was a demon, of the day Dean learned that Sam was leaving to go to Stanford. Sometimes there was supernatural influence. Sometimes, either Sam or Dean was just too pigheaded to realize that his brother was just trying to protect him.

"Sometimes walking away is the best way to handle a fight," Natasha says, and there's something solemn about her tone. "Sometimes you fight because you have no other choice." The shake in her hands is subtle but Sam sees it, and at that moment he learns more about Natasha Romanoff than she'd ever tell him. He sees her past not just in her tremors but in her stillness, in the way she holds herself and the way she fights. Everyone's fighting style tells the story of their lives.

Sam's life of endless motion, of a million houses and no home, of his brother as his only constant is reflected in the way he follows no particular guidelines, using unrefined techniques borrowed from every person he's ever fought but holding his own due to decades of relentless practice in life-or-death situations. Sam is coarse, but he's calm and practiced, used to identifying his opponents' weaknesses and turning their strengths against them.

Dean fights like he's angry, at the world, at his enemies, at the father who taught him everything he knew the only way he knew how. He's like a cannon, energy that destroys everything in its path, uncontrollable. He's designed to be pointed at a target and let loose, the storm to his brother's calm.

Natasha is calm and practiced, like Sam, but she's full of a rage that boils deep beneath the surface. She fights with precision, but every motion has anger behind it, a fire hidden within the ice. She's been trained, extensively trained, by an expert in more than one craft, but in the process, she was forced to hide herself and her passions, forced to become an expert rather than a human. Sam can see glimpses of the real Natasha in her expressive eyes and her slight smiles and the shake of her hands, but they're locked away behind walls of ice and stone, of indifference and apathy that she must have been trained into.

Sam wonders if he and Dean would have turned out the same way, had their father been just a little bit less human.

"Again," Natasha says, readying her fists.

"Any advice?" Sam asks as they begin to circle each other in the ring, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

"Stop thinking," Natasha says. "Fighting is second nature to you. Let it be instinctive." She pauses momentarily before continuing to circle. "Or don't." She adds. "I'm not your teacher, Sam. You don't need a teacher. You know how to fight already, and more importantly, you know how to survive. I can't tell you how to fix yourself because you're the only one who knows if you're really broken. If you win fights by thinking, then think. If you think you'd fare better on instinct, use instinct. Do what you think is right for you." Natasha's words strike Sam to his core, another instance of the secret language Sam shares with his brother. Natasha's advice applies to Sam's fighting, but that's not what she meant when she said it. She was talking about Sam's fighting in the same way that Dean talked about Sam's research when he told him to take a break, get some rest, that it would still be there in the morning. Natasha was talking about Sam's life, and as usual, she was spot on.

The second fight lasts even longer than the first. Sam's ankle twists again but this time he doesn't falter, and ten minutes pass by before either person makes a mistake. And this time, it's Natasha. She fights dirty but she has a style, and that's where Sam has an advantage because after ten minutes he knows what to expect and he knows how to take advantage of it.

When Natasha tries to kick Sam's feet out from under him, he grabs her leg and tosses her to the ground, and this time, she doesn't escape his hold.

Natasha taps out, and Sam stands, watching as the redhead unwraps her hands and ducks under the rope.

"You're going to be fine tonight." She says with a hesitant smile, running a hand through the hair that fell into her face and pushing it back into place. Sam copies the motion, noting distractedly that he's long overdue for a haircut—his mood sours just a bit when he figures that, had Dean been around, the elder Winchester would have offered his services long before now.

"I'm not so sure," Sam replies, grabbing his flannel and following Natasha out of the ring and into the elevator. She requests to be taken to the communal lounge, but Sam decides to go to his room and change instead. "Rogers doesn't seem to be my biggest fan."

"Steve's not the stickler for the rules that the world thinks he is," Natasha says with a grin. "He's stubborn because he doesn't want to accept that you aren't a bad guy. He'll warm up to you eventually, but until then, he'll still watch your back."

"Thanks," Sam says, and he and Natasha both know that the word applies to more than just her statement on Captain Rogers. The elevator door opens into the lounge, and Natasha steps out, sending Sam a stiff nod and a relaxed smile. As the elevator doors close, that simple gesture remains in Sam's mind. It's the first time he's ever seen a genuine smile from Natasha, but just like everything else about her, it wasn't just a smile.

It was her way of showing Sam that she's accepted him into the little family that she's built in Avengers Tower.

Sam hasn't been given a gift that important in a very long time.


	19. Chapter 19

Sam has known pretty much since he escaped the demons that what they did to him broke something in his mind. They gave him several new fears and built upon the ones he already had, cracked the very foundation of his soul into little unstable pieces that could break away and fall with only the slightest provocation. Sam has known for months that fears that were once minor are now full-blown phobias, that everything from a mention of the devil in casual conversation to flashbacks of Lebanon can send him spiraling into panic. He's known all of this, but he's never truly understood the true extent of the change that he's gone through, the true extent of the damage that's been done to his already fragile psyche.

He's never understood just how broken he is until the night of November 2, 2018—the 35th anniversary of his mother's death and the 13th of Jessica's.

Sam goes to bed at one in the morning exhausted to his very core—it was Clint's night to accompany Sam on his patrol and the archer insisted on no less than three parkour races across the rooftops of Manhattan—and wakes less than an hour with tears in his eyes and Jess's name on his lips. He manages to swallow the scream, but the tears escape, rolling down Sam's cheeks as he sits up, heart racing and chest heaving.

It's been years since he reacted so severely to nightmares about Jess, but it's also been years since he's had one so potent, so realistic that he can still feel the heat of the fire on his skin and the droplets of blood slowly drying on his forehead. As he swings his leg over the side of his bed—Sam hasn't been sleeping with his prosthetic on, having realized he moves in his sleep and often bruises his other leg with the metal—Sam finds himself rubbing his forehead with the back of one shaky hand, unconsciously trying to remove the stains of red that aren't really there.

"You appear distressed, Sam." JARVIS's voice is like a firecracker in the silent room, and Sam instinctively reaches for the gun that no longer rests on his nightstand. "Would you like me to contact someone?"

"No," Sam says immediately, urgently, unwilling to reveal any more of his many problems to the Avengers. He knows they have issues, too—knows that several of them likely suffer from nightmares similar to Sam's—but it's one in the morning, and Sam really doesn't want to risk pissing any sleep-deprived superheroes off. Instead, he grabs the crutches resting against the nightstand and stands, heading out of his room and toward the elevator.

"Where would you like to go, Sam?" JARVIS asks, his tone sounding soft to Sam's troubled mind. Echoes of Sam's screams and Jessica's final pleading whispers swirl in the silence that follows JARVIS's question, and Sam finds himself desperate for some noise to distract himself from his memories.

"Can I go to the lobby?" Sam questions, recalling how many people occupied the lowest floor of Avengers Tower the night Sam and Matt were invited to dinner. Any other time, Sam would avoid the general public, but tonight he doesn't plan to socialize—tonight, he just wants some peace.

"Of course," JARVIS says rather than protesting what Sam is sure is going to turn out to be a terrible decision. The elevator starts to move, and Sam looks around the small room, holding his eyes open as wide as possible despite the exhaustion that's settled deep in his bones—every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is Jessica's face as it's consumed by fire.

"Thanks, J," Sam says distractedly as the doors open to reveal a bustling office floor. The sounds of heels clicking on tile and fifty conversations drown out the screams in Sam's mind, and the bright clinical lights wash away any last echoes of flames that lingered on the corners of Sam's vision. Even the smells of smoke and ash are overpowered by the scent of coffee, which coats every inch of the spacious lobby. Almost every person in the room is holding either a paper coffee cup or a thermos, but the majority of the comforting smell is coming from a large stand in the far corner of the room that appears to be some kind of coffee shop. Probably the last thing Sam needs right now is caffeine, but some tea or hot chocolate couldn't hurt, and so Sam heads for the little stand—the word 'Starkbucks' is posted above the shop, a pun Sam wouldn't be surprised to discover was entirely Tony's idea.

Sam makes it about halfway across the lobby, taking special care to be as inconspicuous as possible—a feat that's easier said than done when you're 6'4, using crutches, and currently standing trial in federal court for terrorism—before anyone notices him. Sam wouldn't particularly mind—it's the first time in over a decade that being recognized in public isn't actually a bad thing—except that the man who sees him is quick to point him out to his friend, who announces Sam's presence to the entire lobby in a way that makes it clear he is far from a fan.

"Get lost, Winchester!" The shout is angry and draws the eyes of everyone in the room to Sam, who flinches upon hearing the name that's been poisoned by men just like this. "Go back to your little sanctuary, or we'll drag you into a hole where you belong!" The insults inspire a few others—including the man who first stopped Sam—to join in and yell their own curses, but the majority of the occupants of the lobby just watch silently or even go back to what they're doing, for which Sam is thankful. He isn't expecting anyone to stand up for him, but the fact that there are people who don't jump straight to calling him a monster makes him feel a bit better.

The silent bystanders don't offer comfort for long, however, and the situation quickly escalates from irritating to dangerous when one particular curse hits a little too close to home.

"You killed them, you monster!" A woman yells with venom in her tone, and Sam's knee nearly gives out as he ducks his head, thanking his lucky stars for the hair that falls in front of his face just as his eyes flash yellow. Sam knows the woman was talking about Lebanon—which is terrible enough for Sam's anxiety as it is—but in his mind, he sees his mom and Jessica, and his tenuous grasp on his emotions begins to slip.

"Let's get you back upstairs." A calm, quiet voice says as a hand rests on the small of Sam's back, pushing him gently forward. Sam keeps his head low and his eyes closed and allows his sudden companion to guide him, fully aware that his vision is still shining yellow and he's too wired to turn it off.

When they're safely inside the elevator, and the doors have shut, Sam finally looks up and finds Dr. Banner standing beside him, a coffee cup with the Starkbucks label in his hand.

"What floor, Dr. Banner?" JARVIS asks, and Banner sends Sam a questioning look. When Sam shakes his head—he can't go back to his room just yet, he knows he won't be sleeping anymore tonight, and he can't stand to be alone right now—Banner just nods.

"JARVIS, take us to the library, please," Banner says.

"Right away, doctor." JARVIS replies and the elevator starts to move.

"There's a library?" Sam asks quietly, his voice still shaking and his eyes still glowing. Banner doesn't seem to be put off by Sam's yellow eyes, or if he is, he's doing a great job of hiding it.

"It's on the multipurpose communal floor." Banner explains as the elevator slows to a stop and the doors slide open. "There's a bunch of random rooms on this floor," Banner continues as he steps out of the elevator, "but the one I use the most is the library." Sam follows Banner down the hall, glancing at a couple of the other rooms—there are windows in the doors, but the lights are off so Sam can't see inside—and following him into the third room on the right. When the door closes, all of the noise of the Tower cuts off, from the muted voices of the office workers—with his emotions as potent as they are, Sam's hearing is beyond enhanced—to the quiet buzz of the electricity that pervades every room of the building.

"How is it so quiet?" Sam questions, sitting down in the chair Banner gestures to as the doctor heads for a bookshelf, pulling a couple of volumes out.

"Tony never wired JARVIS into this room." Banner explains. "I'm not sure if that was on purpose or just something he overlooked, but it makes this the quietest and most private room in the tower." Banner takes a seat across the small table from Sam—the two chairs are the only seating in the small library other than a massive beanbag in the far corner—and passes him one of the books. There's no title on the cover, so Sam opens the book, surprised to discover that he's holding a copy of Moby Dick. "Have you read it?" Banner asks, and Sam nods hesitantly.

"I read this in college." He explains. "I didn't really like it if I'm honest." Banner quirks an eyebrow and Sam hastens to elaborate. "It's like, the whale isn't the bad guy, you know? He doesn't know any better. He's being hunted mercilessly by these people who think he's a monster, he's just trying to defend himself." Banner nods, a small smile on his face.

"That's almost exactly what I thought the first time I read this book after the Other Guy." Banner admits. "I had read it before then and never quite seen it that way, but now I think Moby Dick and Hulk have a lot in common." Sam compares the two in his mind and nods, easily finding several similarities just based on what he said earlier. "You're a smart guy, I've noticed." Banner comments after a minute.

"I've always been good at humanities, English and history and stuff," Sam says. "I used to be left alone a lot as a kid, so I'd read a lot of books from the local libraries or whatever I could find."

"What was your favorite?" Banner asks curiously.

"Well, when I was younger, I would read pretty much anything, but I fell in love with Harry Potter when it first came out."

"You would have been, what, 15 or so when the first book was released?" Banner asks.

"I was 14 when Sorcerer's Stone was released," Sam says. "Dean gave it to me for my 15th birthday almost a year later, and I saved for months to get Chamber of Secrets. Read every book, other than Deathly Hallows." Banner frowns but doesn't comment, likely aware of what may have kept Sam from reading the last book in the series.

 _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_  came out in 2007, two months after Sam died the first time and Dean sold his soul to save him. Sam was too focused on saving Dean to worry about reading a kids' book, and then years passed, and he never found the time. He's seen the movies that go with that book, though, thanks to Charlie.

"What did you like about it?" Banner questions, setting the book in front of him aside for the moment. Sam closes Moby Dick and puts it to the side as well, frowning thoughtfully.

"I guess I kinda saw myself in Harry," Sam says after a minute. "For most of my childhood my dad would leave Dean and me for a couple of weeks at a time to do business, but when I was fourteen Dean dropped out of high school and started going with Dad. I spent a lot of time alone, and I was also a teenager, so I got pretty angry at them for leaving me behind all the time. I guess I felt ignored. Like I wasn't right and I didn't fit in." Something Sam later learned was very true for reasons he almost wishes he had never discovered. "Harry's story gave me some hope that maybe I'd find a place where I belonged." Banner takes a sip of his coffee and smiles.

"That's very insightful, Sam." He says. "And I'm sorry you ever felt that way." Banner hesitates, clearly debating something. "I'm also sorry for keeping you at arm's length. The Other Guy seemed wary of you both as Darkside and as Sam, so I thought it in my best interest to keep my distance."

"I don't blame you, really. Either of you." Sam says. "I was a stranger with vaguely defined superpowers when we first met, and a terrorist the second time around. You both had reasons to have your doubts."

"I'm glad we were wrong." Banner replies. "You're dangerous, certainly, but so is everyone else who lives in this tower, myself included. Hulk is still a bit concerned, but I think it's mostly just because he hasn't ever actually met you. He was wary of the other Avengers, too, until he fought alongside them." Sam nods, imagining an encounter with the Hulk and deciding he'd much rather be working with him than against him.

"Hey, have you read Frankenstein?" Sam asks suddenly.

"No, actually," Banner says, frowning. "I've seen several pop culture renditions, courtesy of Tony, but I don't think I've ever actually read the book." Sam smiles, gesturing to the top shelf of the nearest bookcase where he spotted a copy of Frankenstein.

"You should read it," Sam says. "It's got a similar kind of debate as Moby Dick as to whether Dr. Frankenstein or the monster was really at fault. I think it was the doctor, but I'm curious as to how you'd see it."

"I'll have to read it and get back to you on that." Banner decides, standing and using a stool to grab the book. Rather than returning to the table, however, he disappears into the stacks. Sam hears books being moved around for a minute before Banner returns, holding out one of the two books in his hand. When Sam takes it and looks down at the cover, he realizes that it's a copy of  _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_. "It's a lot better than the movies, in my opinion." Banner comments with a smile.

"Thank you, Dr. Banner," Sam says, grabbing his crutches and carefully sandwiching the book between his left forearm and the metal crutch. "For the book, and for everything else."

"No matter how much good you bring to the world, there will always be someone who thinks you take it away," Banner says. "And please, Sam, you've been living with me for over a month now. You don't need to refer to me like I'm your college professor." Banner—Bruce, Sam mentally corrects—hesitates for a moment, wrinkling his nose. "Although you don't have to go so far as to have a silly nickname for me, like Tony."

"Stark seems to have nicknames for everyone." Sam comments, recalling the genius's insistence on calling Bucky 'Metallica'—a name Sam is pretty sure is a joke about both Bucky's long hair and his metal arm.

"That he does." Bruce agrees, shaking his head. "I know Tony is still a bit unsure of you, but he'll warm up eventually. Just know that when he gives you a stupid nickname, it means he's decided you're not just a friend, you're family." Sam nods, watching as Bruce opens his book and begins to read. As Sam turns and exits the library, he wonders if Stark will ever really accept him. Sam doesn't mind being excluded from the Avengers' little family, but he wouldn't protest if they thought of him as a friend.

He has Natasha, Clint, Bucky, Pepper, and now Bruce rooting for him, and that means a lot to Sam—combined with Matt, Foggy, Karen, and the rest of the Defenders, Sam has more people he'd consider friends now than he has in a very long time. It's a calming thought, one that keeps the returning images of flames and blue eyes at bay.

When Sam returns to his room, sits down on his bed, and opens his book, he's surprised to discover that he doesn't really mind being alone right now.

Sam may be alone, but he isn't on his own anymore.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: This chapter was written over a year ago and predates most of Escaping the Dark Side.
> 
> Halo, I hope this chapter fulfills at least a couple of your expectations (and thanks again for the incredible comments on Chapter 15)!

 

In the past month, Sam has managed to form an uneasy alliance with the Avengers. Some, namely Bucky, Natasha, and Clint, have accepted Sam into their family, going out of their way to make him feel welcomed. Others, like Bruce and Pepper, are still hesitant, but they seem to be willing to give Sam the benefit of the doubt. But there are still some Avengers—Captain Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, and Sam Wilson, who still seems to be keeping his distance—who haven't quite come around. The trio isn't rude so much as distant, grudging to befriend Sam but unwilling to be outright mean to him, either—which is probably less out of respect for Sam and more out of respect for their fellow Avengers. Despite the attempts of the rest of the Avengers to make Captain Rogers, Stark, and Wilson see reason, it doesn't appear that any of the three are willing to change their minds. Unfortunately, aside from revealing his escapades as a monster hunter—a part of Sam's past he'd prefer to remain entirely unknown to his newfound allies—there isn't much else Sam can do to convince the Avengers that he can be trusted.

Luckily for Sam, his friends in New York aren't the only ones looking out for him.

A few days after he's introduced to the library by Bruce, Sam runs into the doctor on his way back to his room. Sam's mask is hanging around his neck, and he's in the process of pulling off one of his gloves when Bruce steps into the private elevator, holding what appears to be a Christmas present, complete with Santa Claus wrapping paper and a green bow. Sam eyes the gift curiously but doesn't comment, busying himself with removing his gloves and stuffing them into his pockets.

"It was from Secret Santa last year," Bruce explains without prompting, smiling sheepishly. "Apparently, my Secret Santa was Thor, who left the gift with Jane yesterday when he visited her. She sent it over this morning, and I just got it." Sam just nods—somehow the fact that the Avengers have a Secret Santa is the least surprising thing he's learned during his stay at the Tower—and turns his gaze to the wall. "You should come to the lounge later," Bruce says suddenly. "I'm dropping this off in my room then heading down there. Everyone else will be there." Sam wants to protest, wants to say he's too tired from his patrol—wants to avoid the less friendly Avengers if possible—but he finds himself hesitating. His nightmares, spurred on by the recent somber anniversaries, have yet to cease, and as tired as he is, Sam doesn't particularly want to be alone.

"Let me change out of this and dry off"—Sam gestures to his Darkside clothes, which are nearly soaked through thanks to a spontaneous thunderstorm—"and I'll meet you there." The elevator stops on Sam's floor, and he steps out, waving to Bruce before heading into his room, shedding his jacket along the way and tossing it onto his bed as he thinks.

The Avengers rarely gather as a complete group outside of missions, and when they do it tends to be for a meal rather than for leisure. Clint has mentioned monthly get-togethers for smores or movies in passing but Sam has been with the Avengers for a month and a half now, and nothing of that sort has ever come to fruition—or if it has, Sam wasn't informed of it. He doubts that the Avengers are going to be talking business at two am on a Tuesday morning, but the idea of intruding still makes him uncomfortable.

But Bruce did outright invite Sam to come, and Sam already agreed. It would be even ruder if he just didn't show up at all. Maybe he can just show his face, wave politely, and escape back to his room.

With that thought in mind, Sam changes into a clean t-shirt, deposits his mask on his dresser, and heads back to the elevator.

When the elevator doors open and Sam steps into the communal lounge, he finds all of the Avengers sitting on the square of couches at the far end of the room. Sam approaches them with no small amount of hesitation, unwilling to interrupt anything relating to Avengers business—while Sam might share a living space with the Avengers, he is most definitely not a member of the team. Rather than speak up, Sam waits patiently out of earshot for one of the Avengers to notice him and hopefully decide his next course of action for him.

It takes five minutes and a particularly loud clap of thunder for Clint's head to shoot up and his eyes to land on Sam.

"Heya, Sam!" Clint chirps, waving Sam over. Sam complies hesitantly, taking a seat beside a somewhat uncomfortable-looking Bucky, who is watching the window uneasily. In fact, Sam realizes, several of the Avengers seem more than a little put off by the storm raging outside.

"What's going on?" Sam cautions to ask, feeling like he's missing something incredibly obvious. To his surprise, it's Stark who answers, wearing a small smirk.

"I'm thinking we might be expecting a visitor." He explains, nodding to Bucky and Bruce, who also looks a bit discomforted. "It seems that the God of Thunder makes some of our friends a bit uncomfortable." Sam doesn't miss the way Stark emphasizes the word 'friends,' or the way one corner of his mouth pulls up slightly when he does it. Despite Pepper's best efforts, it's pretty clear to Sam that Tony Stark doesn't trust him as far as he can throw him.

The next bolt of lighting hits so close to the Tower that Sam could swear he can feel the electricity crackling through the air, the hairs on his arms standing on end. Most of the Avengers straighten in what looks almost like anticipation, and a few seconds later the loudest crash of thunder Sam has ever heard echoes through the room. It sounds like it's right on top of the Tower, and Sam realizes a few seconds later that it probably was—before the echoes of the thunder have faded, the elevator doors slide open and a man with short light brown hair, a red cape, and a silver hammer walks into the communal lounge with a massive grin on his face.

"Friends!" Thor exclaims gleefully, and Sam starts to chew knaw on the inside of his cheek. He knew, of course, that Thor was a member of the Avengers and would likely come and go of his own accord, but Sam was really hoping that he would be able to avoid meeting the God of Thunder during his stay at Avengers Tower—if only because of Sam's interactions with pagan gods in the past.

"Hey, Thor." Captain Rogers says, ever the polite one. Rogers stands up and holds out his hand, and Thor rounds the couch opposite Sam, setting his hammer down on the table in the middle of the group and pulling Rogers into a tight hug. The Captain doesn't look remotely surprised by this action, hugging Thor back without much hesitation for a moment before stepping back and taking his seat. Thor bows to each of the Avengers in turn, shaking hands with anyone who accepts the offer—Clint, Sam Wilson, and, surprisingly, Stark—before turning to Sam. Sam smiles as warmly as he can, offering his hand to the god before Thor has a chance to ask.

"Sam Winchester," Sam says, surprising literally everyone else in the room if the raised eyebrows and dropped jaws are anything to go by—even the ordinarily expressionless Natasha looks taken off guard. Thor, although definitely just as shocked as the rest of the Avengers, recovers quickly, taking Sam's hand and shaking it firmly. Thor doesn't, however, release his hold, adding his other hand to Sam's one and giving Sam a thoughtful look instead.

"I have heard many stories of your adventures, young hunter," Thor says, and Sam's eyes widen. "You have conquered many foes and slain many beasts in your short time on this planet, and I have hope that you will continue to do so once this terrible ordeal has finished."

"I, uh..." Sam trails off, staring at the god with his jaw hanging open. He was mentally prepared for several 'meeting Thor Odinson' scenarios, but Thor recognizing him—Thor  _praising_  him—was definitely not one of them.

"What are you talking about, Thor?" Rogers asks, sharing a confused look with the rest of the Avengers. Thor smiles, finally releasing Sam's hand and promptly slapping him on the back hard enough to topple him over. Luckily, Sam is able to keep his balance, although he does grimace at the sharp sting of the unexpected gesture.

"You, my friends, are not the only heroes of Midgard," Thor says. "You are simply the most well-known among the humans on this planet. In the rest of the Nine Realms, more is known of the happenings on Midgard." Thor looks like he's going to launch into a full-scale explanation of everything Sam has been trying to keep under wraps, so Sam sends him a desperate look, pleading with his eyes for the god to stop talking. Sam isn't prepared for the Avengers to know the truth about the supernatural world, and the Avengers aren't prepared to know Sam's role in it. The God of Thunder, luckily, appears to understand what Sam is trying to convey, sending Sam a sympathetic smile. "There are many things you have yet to learn about the workings of your world. When the time presents itself, I will happily teach you about them, should it prove necessary." Thor glances at Sam. "Now is not that time." He continues, smile widening. "Now is the time to put an end to this silly disagreement."

"It's not going to be that easy, Thor," Natasha says, catching on to the true reason for the god's impromptu visit. "Cap, Stark, and Wilson aren't just going to accept Sam because you say they should."

"I am not saying anything," Thor replies. "I am simply here to offer you, my friends, a new perspective. Samuel, if you would." Thor gestures to the hammer on the table and every single Avengers stares at the god with wide eyes.

"Are you implying that Sam Winchester is worthy by Asgard's standards?" Stark asks, the anger in his tone thinly masked by disbelief. "Not even Cap can lift that thing." Sam, for his part, leans forward, examining the hammer more closely.

"Mjolnir, right?" He questions, taking care to pronounce the name correctly. Thor smiles and nods enthusiastically.

"Take it." The god urges, but Sam hesitates. He's seen this hammer before—hell, he's  _used_  this hammer before—but something in the back of his mind nags at him, scares him. What if the demon blood that gave him his abilities changed him in other ways? What if it made him unworthy?

"Go on. I want to see this." Natasha sounds almost bored, but Sam can see the excitement shining in her eyes. Sam looks at Thor, who nods encouragingly, then wraps the fingers of his right hand around the handle of the hammer, pulling up.

Mjolnir comes with Sam's hand, lifting easily into the air, and Sam stares at it with the same disbelief as the Avengers. Thor is the only one who doesn't look even remotely surprised—he just seems excited.

"You are a talented young man, Samuel," Thor says. "A man of many surprises and many secrets." Thor holds out his hand and Sam places the hammer into it, watching as Thor turns to the Avengers. "Friends, know now that Samuel Winchester is worthy of Mjolnir and its powers. While you may not understand his true self, understand this: Samuel does not have a heart of stone. Indeed, he has a heart of gold." Following this remark, Thor turns away, heading for the elevator. The Avengers and Sam watch silently as he leaves, no one willing to break the silence as the God of Thunder exits the room, presumably to disappear back to Asgard, gone as quickly as he came. But right before he enters the elevator, Thor pauses, turning back around and looking directly into Sam's eyes.

Sam stiffens as the god's gaze pierces into his mind, into his soul. Thor frowns, shaking his head.

"You are a different breed of man, Samuel." He says after a minute. "But I believe it is important for you to know this. You may be different, but you are still a man. You are more human than you believe." Thor smiles warmly, nodding to the Avengers and stepping into the elevator. The Avengers immediately start whispering amongst themselves, but Sam tunes them out, thinking about Thor's words as they bounce around his mind.

Sam may have the blood of a monster running through his veins, but he's still worthy of the God of Thunder's hammer. And despite all of the evil within his body, poisoning his blood, Sam's heart and soul are still his. Sam is still himself.

He's still human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this chapter, the events of Thor: Ragnarok still happened, but Thor was able to either retrieve his hammer or make a new one. Either way, Mjolnir (obviously) exists in this universe.


	21. Chapter 21

For a couple of days after Thor's unexpected intervention, not much changes. Sam spars with Natasha a few times and finishes two books from the library—on days when he doesn't have court, Sam doesn't really have much else to do—and at some point he starts getting lessons in how to play Mario Kart—a favorite video game of the Avengers, apparently—from Clint, who was shocked to discover that Sam had never once picked up a controller for a Nintendo Switch.

Sam didn't have the heart to tell Clint that he had never used a Wii, either.

Sam's relationships with the Avengers who already accepted him have seemed to improve in the past couple of weeks, but the ones who have yet to see his side are still distant. And the trial has been dragging along in the background of Sam's mind ever since it began as piles of evidence are unloaded against him that Matt, Foggy, Karen, and Jessica dedicate hours disproving—something that is proving difficult since half of the evidence is right. Overall, Sam just feels stuck, almost like he's repeating the same day over and over again—it's not entirely on the same scale as the incident at the mystery spot, but it's getting close.

The only thing that's really changed recently is the volume of curious looks Sam has been getting from the Avengers. Thanks to Thor's little speech about the heroes of Earth and Sam's humanity, the questions about Sam's past and his powers that were finally beginning to cease have come back with a vengeance, and although none of the Avengers have quite worked up the courage to ask Sam directly, he can see their questions in their eyes, in their faces, in the way their conversations cease whenever he walks into a room.

He wanted some change in his monotonous daily life, but the resurgence of questions he can't answer wasn't quite what he meant.

Two days after his encounter with Thor, Sam finds himself in the gym with Natasha. They've been sparring for two hours now, and Sam was working out for another hour before that—the sparring session began when Natasha walked into the gym and found Sam working out alone—so Sam is getting tired, getting sloppy. It's for that reason that he doesn't see Natasha's sweeping leg until it impacts the back of his right knee. Sam is sent crashing to the floor, and he's quick to jump back up to his feet, only to fall again when his prosthetic knee gives out beneath him. Natasha immediately relaxes her fighting stance when Sam grimaces—the second time he fell, his left ankle caught most of his weight.

"Are you alright?" Natasha asks, genuine concern in her voice as Sam pushes himself into a seated position, stretching both legs out in front of him. His left ankle is red and already swelling lightly—which is a telltale sign of a sprain—but Sam's attention is drawn to his right knee, which is bent slightly out of shape. There's no significant damage, Sam could probably still walk on it—he apparently fell because he wasn't expecting the slight give rather than because the leg wouldn't hold his weight—but the knee joint has clearly been bent.

"I'm okay," Sam says. "But the leg might need a tune-up." Stark had said that the prosthetic was made of the same material as his suits, but Sam figures the knee and ankle joints were probably made of something a little more malleable—and of course, there must be some kind of internal mechanism or wires of some sort to control the motion.

"JARVIS, can you call Stark?" Natasha asks. "Tell him Sam and I are on our way to his lab."

"Of course, Miss Romanoff," JARVIS replies succinctly before going quiet once again. Natasha offers a hand and pulls Sam to his feet. Sam is quick to regain balance on his right leg—he was right about it still being able to hold his weight—but when he puts a little pressure on his left foot, the spike of pain that shoots up his leg is so potent that it makes him think for a moment that he stepped on a nail. Sam lifts his foot back up off the ground and leans against the post in the corner of the sparring ring, watching as Natasha takes note of the situation and ducks under the rope.

"I'll be right back." She says, jogging into one of the side rooms—Sam is pretty sure they hold equipment and weapons—and returning a moment later with a crutch. Natasha hands the crutch to Sam, who tucks it under his arm and takes a hobbling step across the ring. The crutch is a bit short for him—Sam is guessing it's meant for Captain Rogers or maybe Bucky—but it's functional, and that's good enough for Sam. With Natasha's help, he ducks under the ropes, and the duo head into the elevator—Sam hobbling awkwardly on half a functional leg and Natasha moving fluidly at his side, keeping his pace perfectly and looking entirely natural even though she's moving at a snail's pace.

The ride to Stark's lab is spent in silence, and when the elevator doors open Natasha simply wishes Sam well and stays in the elevator. Stark, who is looking at a hologram of what appears to be the helmet of an Iron Man suit, beckons Sam over without turning around. Sam doesn't see any chairs near where Stark is standing so he heads for the clear table beside the genius, sitting down on top of it and resting the crutch carefully against the edge of the table.

"So, what happened?" Stark asks, turning around and nodding to Sam's leg and the crutch.

"I was sparring with Natasha and she hit the back of the knee, bent it," Sam explains. "I can still walk on it but it's out of alignment."

"So why the crutch?" Stark asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't realize the leg was bent at first, so when I first stood up, I fell," Sam says, face heating up. "Landed on my left ankle. I think I sprained it." Stark glances at Sam's rapidly swelling ankle and nods, a hint of a frown on his face as he turns back to the room at large.

"Hey, Dum-E, bring Sam some ice for his ankle." Stark orders the robot Sam met the last time he was here. A chirping sound is the robot's reply as it heads for a fridge in the far corner of the room. Stark holds out his hand and it takes Sam a minute to realize that he's waiting for Sam to pass him the prosthetic leg. Sam is quick to remove the metal leg and give it to the genius, who quickly starts to take it apart. By the time Dum-E reaches Sam with an ice pack in his claw, the prosthetic is lying disassembled on the table.

"Thanks," Sam says to Dum-E, taking the ice pack and resting his left leg on his right thigh so he can better ice his ankle. The robot whistles happily and spins in a circle, accidentally hitting Stark in the side as he turns and knocking some kind of device out of the hero's pocket. The machine starts beeping repeatedly and Stark stops in his tracks, dropping the tools in his hands—one of them might have been a screwdriver but Sam honestly has no idea about the other—and scooping the device off of the ground, frowning at it.

"Ugh, Dum-E!" Stark scolds, glaring at the robot as it backs away slowly, letting out a series of almost dejected beeps. The device in Stark's hands continues to beep incessantly, and from the annoyed look on the mechanic's face, that isn't normal.

"What is that?" Sam asks hesitantly, and Stark turns away from Dum-E, glaring at the device.

"It's supposed to alert me if my heart is acting up," Stark explains, hitting the device lightly with his free hand. "Never done this before, though." He hits it again, scowl deepening as the beeping continues.

"Can you fix it?" Sam asks, and Stark pauses mid-hit, sending Sam an incredulous look.

"I invented an element once. I can fix a faulty heart monitor." Stark hits the device once more with the palm of his hand a little harder, and the beeping abruptly stops. A smile spreads across Stark's face and he holds the device out triumphantly. "See? Told you I could do it. Just took a little percussive maintenance and it's as good as new."

"Percussive maintenance?" Sam repeats curiously. The term sounds somewhat familiar, but it also doesn't seem like an explanation for whatever Stark just did.

"It's a fancy term for 'hitting it until it works.'" Stark explains with a grin. "Sounds much more intelligent, don't you think?" Sam returns the smile, nodding—Stark's choice of words sounds familiar, like something Dean would say teasingly while fixing up the Impala. The moment doesn't last, however, as the smile on Stark's face fades into an expression of determination and he shoves the heart monitor back into his pocket, turning back to the leg.

Stark works in silence for a while, occasionally asking Sam questions about how the prosthetic has been working in the field and around the Tower—Stark calls it the house but Sam can't quite seem to do the same. Whenever Stark isn't talking, the air is filled with the sounds of his work and of Dum-E, who periodically accosts Stark with a light poke on the shoulder and a series of whirs and whistles Sam interprets to be some kind of apology.

"You know what? You're forgiven." Stark exclaims after the fifth such occurrence, setting down the metal piece in his hand that Sam is pretty sure is a part of the ankle of the prosthetic and patting the robot on the top of the claw. Dum-E chirps happily and retreats back to the corner where it was residing before Stark sent it to get ice. "Finally," Stark says, his tone gruff and annoyed but his expression one of fondness. He turns back to his work again and the room falls silent once more for a few more minutes.

Sam passes the time thinking about Stark and Dean. He never would have imagined watching Tony Stark on TV that he would be anything like Dean, and yet the more time Sam spends with the genius, the more he sees his brother. Stark is snarky, sarcastic, brilliant. He and Dean both—if the pictures of Stark's cars Sam has seen online are any indication—have a penchant for older muscle cars and are both talented mechanics. And they both seem to have the same method of dealing with their problems—Tony is avoiding talking to Sam the same way Dean always does when something is troubling him.

"Oh, by the way, I wanted to thank you for helping Pep out with her paperwork the other day," Tony says offhandedly, breaking Sam out of his thoughts. Sam looks up and realizes that the mechanic has begun to fit the prosthetic back together. "I know it meant a lot to her."

"That reminds me," Sam hedges, "when we spoke she told me to ask you about the Demon." Tony looks up at this, his hands pausing with the two halves of the prosthetic inches from each other. "I can't say I knew what she was saying, but I figured I'd ask anyway."

"She probably figured it would be a good way to force me to talk to you," Tony says in a tone that suggests he's only half joking. "That, or it's her way of telling me she's sick of how I'm treating you." Sam bites the inside of his cheek but remains silent, watching as Tony sighs and sets down the prosthetic leg. "I'm sorry about that, by the way. It's just... hard to reconcile what I know about you as Darkside and what I know, or rather thought I knew, about you as Sam Winchester." Sam swallows hard, hands twitching a bit at the mention of his last name, but for the most part, he manages to remain stoic.

"I understand that," Sam says with a shrug. "I mean, for all anyone knew I was a serial killer and a terrorist. Hell, most of the world still thinks that. Even after I started being Darkside, Matt thought I had been a killer. Innocent of Lebanon, maybe, but not the rest."

"It's not even that, as much," Tony admits. "When I was informed by Murdock that Darkside and Sam Winchester were one and the same, I was almost... not betrayed." He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. "That makes me sound like the love interest in a shitty rom-com. Maybe... mislead. I mean, I figured I already knew who Darkside was." Sam hesitates at this, frowning. "And I helped him defeat the Demon, so I guess I thought I could be trusted with his identity." Tony continues, turning to look Sam in the eye with a shadow of a smirk on his face. "Of course, he didn't know mine, either." Sam's eyes widen as the pieces fall into place in his mind and he suddenly wants to smack himself in the forehead for not seeing it sooner.

"You're Andrew Smith," Sam says and Tony grins, nodding sharply.

"Correct." He says studiously. "I have to say, when I was informed by JARVIS that Darkside had a tendency to target crimes posted on a particular web forum for wannabe hacktivists, I wasn't expecting to meet the yellow-eyed hero himself."

"You're the one who sent me the location of the Demon's base." Sam continues in utter disbelief, shaking his head. "You're the reason SHIELD showed up to take the Demon in."

"That I am," Tony says, puffing up his chest just a bit. "That reminds me, at some point you're going to have to explain the whole 'creepy sigil keeps the bad guy in place' thing. You really freaked Barton out when he realized that the bullet in Whitmore's leg was quite literally keeping him from moving."

"So he's still in captivity?" Sam asks, and Tony nods.

"SHIELD transferred Whitmore to this underwater prison of theirs." He explains. "Did what you asked and copied that sigil onto the door, and Whitmore's been there ever since. He apparently tried to escape once, but the guards had the foresight to keep some of those fancily carved bullets of yours handy. Stopped him in his tracks." Sam frowns, recalling his instructions to Agent Hill.

"If you want to be sure he doesn't escape, paint the sigil on the ceiling of his cell and stick him in the middle of it," Sam says after a minute. "He won't be able to get out then even if the door is wide open."

"And you know this how?" Tony questions and Sam laughs, shaking his head.

"It's complicated." He says. "A part of my past that I'm not really involved with anymore. And a part you hopefully never will be."

"Well, now you've just made me curious," Tony says. "I'm going to do some Googling of that sigil of yours later, see what I can dig up."

"My apologies, Sir, but your Googling will have to wait," JARVIS speaks up suddenly, and both Sam and Tony turn their attention to the hologram table when an image pops up.

"What is this, Jar?" Tony asks, walking over to the hologram table and making the image larger so Sam can see it from his position halfway across the room.

"This is security footage from a Biggerson's in Lebanon, Kansas," JARVIS says. "The footage is dated 3:16:21 5 October 2018 and appears to be from a camera directed at a large walk-in freezer. It was emailed to Sir by a Jessica Jones with the following message: Friend found this on the Dark Web. Thought you might like to see it. Good luck in court, Sam. Claire." Sam's eyes widen and Tony turns, sending him a curious look.

"You know what this is?" Tony asks and Sam is quick to nod.

"The day the bomb went off," Sam explains. "Dean and I were at the Biggerson's, and I found the bomb in the freezer. That's the reason we were running away when it went off."

"So this is..." Tony trails off and Sam nods, a hesitant smile forming on his face.

"This is footage of the Lebanon bombing. Footage that could prove my innocence."


	22. Chapter 22

Sam didn't realize until now just how difficult it is to watch this series of events through another pair of eyes. When Tony starts the footage, for a minute Sam almost thinks he'll make it through this without any issues. It's just footage of a freezer, and even though Sam knows what's behind the door, it's not necessarily dangerous in of itself.

Then, about 45 seconds after the start of the footage, blood flies across the screen, and a body falls to the ground, head just in view of the camera. Tony actually jumps a bit, but Sam just bites the inside of his cheek, watching as the Sam Winchester of a year ago—the Sam Winchester who died a year ago—steps into view, an angel blade with a blood-soaked tip held threateningly in his right hand. Tony's gaze breaks away from the footage for a moment while he fixes Sam with a worried look, but he's quick to turn back when Sam's face—the real Sam, not the one in the footage—pales. The Sam of a year ago pulls open the freezer door and stops in his tracks, and Tony's jaw drops as he takes in the sheer volume of explosives crammed into the small metal room.

"Damn," Tony says so quietly Sam is pretty sure he doesn't even know he's said it, watching with rapt attention as the Sam on the screen turns, shouts—the footage has no audio, but Sam knows he's yelling Dean's name—and breaks into a run, disappearing from view. The freezer door is still open, and through it the timer on the bomb is clearly visible, counting down one second at a time.

**4:31**

**4:30**

**4:29**

Sam knows that he won't be seen on screen again, but he watches silently anyway, watches at the timer hits four minutes, three, two, one. Sam's heart rate accelerates despite his best efforts as the seconds tick by and he pictures what he was doing, sees the countdown in his mind juxtaposed with the scattered memories he has of running through the streets, desperate to get as many people clear as possible and unable to save even one.

**0:03**

**0:02**

**0:01**

The timer never reaches zero, or at least, Sam and Tony never see it because the clock is obscured by a cloud of light and dust that accelerates toward the camera just before it cuts out entirely. The video continues in static, but Tony makes no move to shut it off, turning his attention to Sam as the vigilante stares blankly. He's all too aware of the heartbeat racing in his ears, all too aware of the way that his hands are shaking, but it isn't until his vision brightens considerably that he realizes that he's descending into a sensory attack in the middle of Tony's lab.

"Sam?" Tony asks, but it's far too late—his voice is faint, like an echo, and the colors of the lab melt away as Sam's eyes glow a bright yellow. Sam can only watch Tony's frantic approach for a moment before he's no longer sitting on the table in the lab.

Sam is fully expecting to find himself in Lebanon or perhaps even with Asmodeus and his demons, but instead, he discovers that he's standing in a park. It's not the same park as his dream from a few weeks before, but the surroundings—the Manhattan skyline—are still there, still surrounding Sam. It's nighttime once again, dark but for the streetlamps that illuminate the sidewalks around Sam. The wind rustles the leaves and tugs at his hair, but Sam doesn't react, too focused on the figure that's rapidly approaching. Sam wants to leave, wants to run or teleport away, but he's frozen in place, his feet as stiff as if they were encased by ice rather than just damp with frost.

Sam is shaking, his body wracked with shivers as he stands in a cold park in only a flannel and a pair of jeans, but he isn't scared, isn't fearful even as the figure approaches, every step punctuated by the crackling of dried leaves. The man is dressed in a way that obscures his face, his stature, even the color of his skin, and yet Sam knows instinctively that he's facing the Judge, the man who swore to kill him. The Judge is holding a gun, a gun that's pointed directly at Sam's chest and ready to fire, and yet Sam isn't nervous in the least, a strange sense of calm settled over him like a blanket too heavy to lift. A hand moves toward the scarf wrapped around the Judge's face and the scarf curves upward—and even though Sam doesn't know what face is hiding beneath, he can see the smirk as clear as day.

"Your time has come, Sam. Sam. Sam."

"Sam?" Tony's voice breaks through the fog and Sam's eyes fly open as the Judge and the park disappear. "Are you alright?" Tony asks, and Sam nods, pushing himself up into a seated position. Tony passes Sam his prosthetic leg—he apparently finished assembling it while Sam was trapped in his own mind—and leans back, frowning. "Are you sure? You were looking right at me and then your eyes turned yellow, and you passed out."

"It was... uh... a vision," Sam says awkwardly, biting the inside of his cheek. "An ability of mine that doesn't tend to show itself very often, or at least, not during the day."

"A vision," Tony repeats, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Like of the future?" Sam nods, frowning deeply.

"It was a park." Sam finally says—the park looked different this time around, but it was still clearly a park—shaking his head. "I was just standing there, waiting for something. Someone walked up to me and pointed a gun at me, but I couldn't see their face. They said 'your time has come, Sam' and then I woke up." This is the second time now Sam has seen the same thing and the second time he's been forcibly woken before he could see his attacker's face.

"Sounds weird," Tony says succinctly, and Sam nods.

"The visions can be a pain, especially when they happen during the day and I just kind of keel over like that," Sam says. "But they're useful. I dreamt about the shooting at the bank for months before it happened, and that's the only reason I was able to stop the first bullet before it killed that girl. I've had this particular vision twice now, both times while I was at the Tower."

"You think it's really going to happen?" Tony asks.

"Probably," Sam replies. "Maybe not exactly as I saw it, but it will most likely happen. I don't know when, though. My visions tend to start anywhere from a few hours to a few months before the event itself takes place. I think this one is sooner rather than later, though, just because I'm pretty sure the figure I saw was the Judge."

"What makes you so sure?" Tony questions.

"I don't know, exactly," Sam admits. "Sometimes when I have a vision I just get these... intuitions, I guess. Things that the Sam in the vision knows as fact that as a result, I know, too. Somehow, I knew that the man with the gun was the Judge. I don't know why just yet, but I guess eventually I will."

"And these visions, how long have you had them?" Tony asks. Sam hesitates, fully aware of where this line of questioning will inevitably end. If he tells Tony the truth, information about his past will have to come to light—and yet, Sam really doesn't want to lie.

"I should call Matt," Sam says instead. "About the video." The change of subject is evident but Tony allows it without question, just nodding and telling JARVIS to make the call.

"Hello?" Matt's voice echoes through the room after two rings. He sounds relaxed, slightly out of breath like he's just finished laughing. Sam wonders what he was laughing at.

"Matt, it's me. I've got Stark with me." Sam says. "It's about my trial."

"What is it?" Matt asks, his tone shifting to one that's more business-like.

"I received an email from someone named Claire that has video surveillance footage of a Biggerson's in Lebanon, Kansas," Tony explains.

"It's the day of the bombing, Matt," Sam says. "It shows me discovering the bomb already activated and running away from it."

"Can you send it to us?" Foggy speaks up suddenly—Sam had no idea he was with Matt, but figures that's what or rather who Matt was laughing at. "I'll watch it right now and tell you what I think."

"Send the video, Jar," Tony says with a nod, and Foggy conveys that he's received the footage a few seconds later. Tony and Sam sit quietly on the line as Foggy watches the footage, describing specific details—including the dead body and the bloody angel blade—to Matt in concern. Matt assures him that he'll explain everything later, citing Tony's presence as the reason he isn't speaking up now.

"Attorney-client privilege," Matt says when Tony questions this, and Sam can picture the smirk on the blind lawyer's face.

"I don't think we should submit this video as evidence, Sam," Foggy says after he finishes watching the footage.

"Why not?" Tony asks.

"This footage doesn't prove that you didn't plant the bomb, it just proves that you knew it was there," Matt explains.

"And from this angle, it can even be construed that you're setting the bomb." Foggy adds. "Submitting the footage would probably work against us more than for us."

"Sorry, Sam," Matt adds. Before Sam can reply, Foggy's phone goes off in the background of the call.

"Got to go, that's Jessica," Foggy says just before the line goes dead. Sam shakes his head dejectedly as Tony closes the footage, frowning.

"For a second there, I really thought I might have a chance," Sam says mostly to himself. Tony turns to him, raising an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?" He asks curiously, and Sam shrugs.

"I mean, what were the chances we found any footage at all?" Sam asks rhetorically. "Lebanon was destroyed, that Biggerson's was flattened. It's a miracle Claire found what she did, and it's useless." Sam shakes his head again, biting the inside of his cheek. "The only evidence we have that I'm innocent is my own testimony, and even if anyone would believe me, my mixed up memories of Lebanon wouldn't be admissible, either. Dean's trial was a joke, a media circus that stretched out for four months so that the public would have someone to blame. There was no evidence that he didn't do it. And now, months later, I still have no way to prove that we didn't do it."

"Yet." Tony corrects. "You have no proof  _yet_." He turns back to his computer, typing rapidly. "This Claire, I'm assuming she's a friend of yours?" Tony asks as he works.

"Yeah, in a way," Sam merely says—he isn't actually sure whether Claire Novak or Claire Temple sent the footage, but either way his relationship with them isn't entirely a friendship, although for two different reasons.

"I'm guessing she doesn't have access to this kind of tech." Tony continues, gesturing to his lab as a whole before glancing at Sam, who shakes his head—neither Claire has technology like this.

"Where are you going with this?" Sam asks after a second, and Tony grins.

"I'm glad you asked, Sasquatch." He says. "JARVIS, look through everything recovered from the Lebanon crime scene. Find every piece of video footage that's been recovered."

"Right away, Sir," JARVIS replies, and Tony turns his attention to Sam.

"If that bit of footage from the center of the explosion survived, there must be something else out there," Tony says eagerly. "Something that shows someone else planting the bomb, something that shows that you couldn't have done it. Something. There's always something if you know where to look."

"Thank you," Sam says simply, unable to say anything else. He can't find the words to say how grateful he is that Tony is doing this, how much it means to him that Tony is helping him, is proving once and for all that he believes Sam, believes in his innocence and is willing to dedicate his time and his tech to help Sam prove it to everyone else. "I, uh, I should go," Sam says, grabbing the crutch and standing. The ice pack, long melted, is left on the table as Sam heads for the exit.

"Hey, Sasquatch." Tony calls and Sam stops, turning around to see the mechanic with his hands on his hips and a faux-stern expression on his face. "Try not to mess up that leg anymore, okay?"

"Of course," Sam replies, stepping into the elevator. "Thanks, Tony." He adds as an afterthought, and Tony just nods, a genuine grin spreading across his face.

It isn't until the elevator doors close that Sam realizes he called the mechanic 'Tony.' And it takes a little bit longer for Sam to realize that may have been the source of Tony's last smile. With the source of Tony's initial mixed reactions unveiled and Sam's mysterious past more fleshed out, it seems that Tony has started to see pieces of the real Sam Winchester that Thor spoke of. And it also looks like he's planning on accepting them.

With a smile wide enough to mirror Tony's, Sam enters his room and reaches for his mask with a renewed confidence in his future, both as Darkside and as Sam Winchester. Sam may have finally found an ally in Iron Man.

And with Tony Stark on his side, he just might be able to make it through this.


	23. Chapter 23

The days seem to drag by at a snail's pace after the discovery of the footage.

Sam falls quickly back into his usual routine, his days filled with mundane activities and sparring sessions and his nights filled with uniform, boring patrols. The only thing that breaks up the monotony is the endless stream of nightmares that haunt Sam night after night, filling his mind with spotty images of Lebanon and the demons or crisp flashbacks of Lucifer, Azazel, and even incidents well into Sam's childhood. The most disturbing of the nightmares are the visions of the man in the park. Sam has had two such visions in the six days since the incident in Tony's lab, each time waking before the scene can end to the sound of his alarm or a misguided attempt at assistance offered to him by an Avenger. Sam is growing irritated by the fact that he can't seem to see his attacker's face, but he's decided that it's likely because he doesn't actually remember what the Judge looks like on account of the concussion he received during their last encounter.

But Sam's logical reasoning can't stop the ghostly figure haunting his dreams from stalking him in daylight hours as well, and he often finds himself looking over his shoulder for a shadow that is nowhere to be found in the well-lit Avengers Tower.

Six days after the discovery of the Lebanon footage, Sam has his first day back in court. As usual, he's accompanied by no less than two Avengers—this time it's Clint and Sam Wilson who offer their services as Sam's bodyguards—who fail to keep Sam entirely safe from the crowds that await him outside the courthouse. The Avengers are skilled at deflecting physical attacks—not that there are many of those, on account of the presence of the Avengers—but when it comes to the verbal confrontations, there isn't much they can do. Court itself isn't as draining as entering and leaving the building—every time he's outside Sam has to endure hundreds of insults and threats that dig a little bit deeper each time.

Needless to say, by the time he's gotten back to the Tower, Sam is exhausted, and he elects to sleep away the rest of the day until it's time to go out into the city as Darkside. It's a reasonable decision in theory, but Sam wakes six hours later feeling less rested than he did before, flashes of heat and dust and blood swirling around his head like some kind of demented carousel.

Holding his thoughts at bay through sheer stubbornness, Sam pulls on his jacket and gloves and heads to the lounge, where he finds Natasha—likely his babysitter for the night—waiting in a similar outfit, her arms crossed impatiently. To Sam's surprise, however, Natasha isn't the only one in the room—Matt Murdock, dressed in his usual lawyer garb, is standing at the bar, a wide grin stretching across his face. Matt's expression reminds Sam of Tony's whenever he has a bombshell to drop, and with that in mind, Sam nods cordially to Natasha and heads over to Matt, tying his mask around his neck and leaving it hanging there as he takes a seat beside his friend.

"What's going on?" Sam questions, cautiously optimistic about the news Matt is likely here to deliver. Matt just smiles again, digging into his pocket and producing what appears to be some kind of declaration, signed at the bottom. Sam takes the paper and skims through it, his eyes widening with every word until he reaches the bottom at the same time that Matt decides to announce out loud a brief summary of the paper.

"You've been granted visitation with your brother on Friday," Matt says excitedly, and Sam has already read the same thing but hearing it out loud makes it seem real, makes it seem _possible_. Sam is left speechless for a good two minutes, head spinning as he imagines the reunion. He knows it will likely take place in a concrete room with three armed guards posted in the corners and security cameras flashing, knows that Dean will be dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit and probably handcuffed to a table. But that doesn't stop him from picturing the hug he's been desperate to receive for almost a year.

"How did you manage that?" Natasha asks curiously, joining the conversation as she walks over to the bar.

"If Sam is convicted, they aren't going to place him in the same prison as his brother, there's no way," Matt says. "I reasoned, with added testimony from Pepper Potts and several of the Avengers, that Sam has been a model houseguest at Avengers Tower during his stay and should be allowed to see his brother once, at the very least, in person. It took some convincing, but the judge agreed."

"But..." Sam draws the word out, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"But Sam has to have some kind of police or federal escort throughout the entire process," Matt says. "Including in the room with him." Sam nods dejectedly—it's exactly what he expected, but that doesn't mean he isn't disappointed.

"Can an Avenger do it?" Natasha suggests, and Matt and Sam both look up to see a soft smile on her face. Matt pauses for a moment, considering the question, then he nods.

"I can't imagine why not." He says. "I'll speak to the judge and see if that can be arranged. As long as it isn't Dr. Banner, I imagine she'll agree." Matt turns to Sam and Natasha follows suit, planting her hands on her hips. "If I can get permission, which Avenger do you want to accompany you?"

Which Avenger? Sam asks himself, frowning. The obvious choice would be either Natasha or Clint. They're both on his side and would both probably be willing to look the other way should Sam and Dean discuss some less-than-ordinary things—which is likely what's going to happen the second they're even close to alone. Bucky would be Sam's ideal choice, but Sam doesn't want to force the soldier into an uncomfortable situation, which going not only into public but into a _prison_ would undoubtedly entail. Like Matt said, Bruce is out—he won't be much of a bodyguard unless he's Hulked out, and that wouldn't end well for anyone. Sam has barely spoken two words to Sam Wilson, so that's probably not a great idea, either. And Tony left for California yesterday on Stark Industries business and won't be back until late next week, so he's out of the question.

Sam knows he should pick Natasha or Clint or even both, knows that they're the most logical choices and the most likely to say yes. And yet he finds himself hesitating to say as much to Matt. Natasha's presence would certainly be welcomed by Dean, but Sam doesn't really want his reunion with his brother to include Dean getting a black eye. And while Clint can be a good companion, he's not great at being quiet—or serious, for that matter—and Sam really wants this to be an opportunity to be with his brother again. And more than that, he wants his brother to know that he's alright, and to make Dean happy, even if for a little bit.

With that in mind, the choice is clear.

"Captain Rogers," Sam says confidently, earning him incredulous looks from both Natasha and Matt.

"He's one of the only people in the Tower who still isn't your fan," Natasha says bluntly, and Sam nods.

"I know that." He says. "But I'm going to be going to the prison practically on my own, and I won't be able to fend for myself as Darkside. You and Clint are more than prepared, but something tells me the prison won't allow weapons. Rogers is the most likely to be able to protect me." Sam hesitates, turning to Matt. "Plus, Dean is a massive fan of Captain America. It would mean the world to him to meet Cap." Matt nods slowly, as does Natasha. "I know he isn't really on my side right now, but I still think Rogers is the best person for the job."

"I'll see what I can do," Matt says. "I should go speak to the judge now." He adds, standing and heading for the elevator. After the doors close, Natasha turns her attention to Sam, smiling.

"I'll talk to him." She promises, spinning on her heel and heading for the hallway that leads to the private elevator. "But for now, we've got a patrol." When they reach the hall, Sam hesitates, and Natasha pauses, turning back around to face him. Natasha looks Sam over once and raises an eyebrow, silently questioning his mental state. Sam just shrugs, tying his mask around his face and heading into the private elevator. Natasha follows close behind and the pair travels down together in silence that neither hero is willing to break. As soon as the doors open, Sam points to the rooftop he plans to escape to and Natasha nods, watching as Sam's eyes flash yellow and he vanishes into the air, reappearing an instant later on the roof. It doesn't take long for Natasha to join Sam on the roof—she's not quite as fast as Matt or Clint but much faster than most people would be—and after Sam makes his usual promise not to teleport out of sight, Natasha waves him off and blends effortlessly into the darkness.

Sam's patrol is pretty uneventful for the first couple of hours. He spends most of his time teleporting from rooftop to rooftop and surveying the city, stopping a couple of muggings and retrieving a bike that a 13-year-old girl managed to get stuck near the top of an impressively large tree. As Sam patrols the streets, Natasha follows closely behind, her presence reassuring even though Sam rarely actually sees her. Sam can keep tabs on Natasha reasonably well through the use of his yellow vision, and every time he teleports somewhere else he looks over his shoulder, tracking Natasha's bright soul from building to building as she parkours with skills on par with Clint's.

After saving a little boy from being hit by a car, Sam teleports himself to the nearest rooftop, watching over the edge as the boy's mother hugs him close to her chest, crying tears of relief that glisten in the dim light of the nearest streetlamp. Once the pair has gone inside, Sam turns around in preparation to move elsewhere in the city, only to find himself face-to-face with another person, far too large to be Natasha. Sam's instincts scream for him to attack but before he can so much as lift a finger the barrel of a gun is pressed into his right side and a hand wraps around his chest, holding him in place. Sam's eyes flare for an instant, drowning his attacker's face in light, but when the glow of the man's soul fades, Sam is shocked to find himself staring into the eyes of the man who attacked him at the police station. The smirking face watching Sam now slots into his memory like it was never gone, the fog over Sam's memories of that night clearing away almost instantly.

"What do you want?" Sam asks, practically growling out his question in an attempt to keep his voice low enough for the Judge not to recognize it.

"I want Sam Winchester." The Judge replies, and Sam frowns, shifting his weight slightly only for the man holding the gun on him—Sam can only assume he's some kind of henchman—to tighten his grip and dig the metal barrel further into Sam's side.

"What do I have to do with that?" Sam questions next, hoping that for once his opponent doesn't already know his identity—which is actually likely in this case, since Sam is pretty sure the Judge isn't a demon.

"Sam Winchester is locked in a fortress." The Judge says as if it's obvious. "Protected by the superheroes whose sole purpose is to get rid of scum like him." The Judge gestures to Sam, a sinister grin stretching across his face. "You, Darkside, are one of the few non-Avengers with access to Avengers Tower. You're going to bring me Sam Winchester." Sam almost laughs at this, at the irony that the Judge has no idea he's asking Sam to deliver himself to his death. Instead, his eyes flash again and he shakes his head stiffly.

"I'm not helping you commit murder," Sam says. "Sam Winchester deserves a trial. He deserves to have his case heard by a _real_ judge." The Judge smirks, shrugging his shoulders a little too nonchalantly.

"Perhaps he does." The Judge says. "They call me the Judge because I do what the real judges won't. I rid New York of the criminals the Justice System refused to take off the streets. If Sam Winchester receives the death penalty, I'll leave him alone." The Judge pauses, something dark flashing in his eyes. "Given, of course, that I don't find an opportunity to take care of him myself first. I'll just move on to his brother." That comment is enough to send a wave of anger through Sam's body. His eyes glow brightly and he shoves the man holding him off with ease, ripping the gun from his hand and bending it nearly in half as he stalks toward the Judge.

"You will not kill anyone else," Sam says darkly. "I don't care how bad you think these people are, they don't deserve to die. They don't deserve to be _executed_." The Judge falters as Sam approaches, taking a step back then raising a gun that Sam sends flying to the edge of the roof with a wave of his hand. "Sam and Dean Winchester are under my protection. If you want to kill them, you'll have to go through me." The Judge takes another step back, then grins.

"It would be my pleasure." He says, and a pair of strong hands grab the back of Sam's jacket and yank him roughly backward.

In the time it takes Sam to turn and knock his attacker—the same henchman from before—unconscious, the roof-access door slams open and more men begin to stream out. Unlike the Demon's mercenary-esque henchmen, these men are mismatched, some heavily tattooed and others clean-shaven. What they all have in common, however, is anger in their eyes that is far too familiar.

Sam fights off a few of the men but they just keep coming, a seemingly endless supply of people all too eager to send a punch flying at Sam's head or chest. Sam holds his own with relative ease due mostly to a combination of rage and adrenaline until he's momentarily distracted by a pair of attackers he swears he's seen before.

The fist that connects with Sam's chin sends him sprawling, and when he looks up, he finds the two men he dubbed Tweedledee and Tweedledum in the alleyway so long ago standing over him, matching anticipatory grins on their faces.

"Hey, boys, over here!" A familiar voice shouts just as Tweedledee lands a brutal punch to Sam's sternum that sends all of the air from his lungs. The two men and their friends—and Sam—all turn to look at the side of the roof where the voice came from. Natasha is standing on the ledge with two guns drawn and aimed directly at Tweedledee and Tweedledum. "I'd say pick on someone your own size, but I don't think I've ever met anyone else quite that large." The insult is said casually as if Natasha is joining a conversation rather than a fight. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, predictably, decide that Natasha is their new target and charge her with most of their friends on their heels. After he recovers his breath, Sam jumps back into the fray, fighting his way through the ten or so men until he reaches Natasha, who is sparring with both Tweedledee and Tweedledum at the same time and holding her own rather admirably.

As soon as he's dispatched the last of the other gang members—and scanned the roof for Red, who doesn't appear to be present—Sam joins the fight against the two men, engaging one in hand-to-hand and wincing when he blocks a punch that hurts almost as bad as it would have had it made contact. Natasha wasn't joking about the size of these two—a few more pounds and they could probably qualify as sumo wrestlers.

"Sam!" Natasha shouts a warning and Sam ducks, watching a meaty fist swing over his head and delivering a blow that finally knocks Tweedledee unconscious. Sam turns to thank Natasha for the warning only to watch Tweedledum's fist connect with the side of her head, sending her flying away from him—and right off of the roof. Without a second thought, Sam dives off of the building after her, grabbing Natasha—who was apparently knocked unconscious by the hit—twisting so that he's on the bottom, and teleporting the pair to Avengers Tower.

Sam's back slams into the wooden floor of the communal lounge and he gasps painfully, his voice drowned out by two surprised exclamations as Clint and Rogers jump backward and into combat stances in an instinctive reaction to the intruders. As soon as they realize their unexpected guests are actually Sam and Natasha, the two relax, watching as Sam carefully sits up, checking Natasha for injuries and carefully laying her down on the floor next to him as his vision fades back to normal.

"What the hell just happened?" Clint asks, genuine concern in his voice as he drops to his knees next to Natasha and checks her pulse, relief flashing across his face when he presumably finds it strong and steady.

"Got ambushed by the Judge," Sam says breathlessly as he pulls down his mask, still trying to catch his breath from the impact of falling at least a good twenty feet. "He brought a lot of friends. When Natasha tried to help, one of them managed to knock her off the roof. I grabbed her and teleported us here."

"You jumped off of a roof to save her?" Clint asks, sending Sam a grateful smile when the yellow-eyed vigilante nods.

"I've done it before." He admits, recalling when he pulled a similar stunt to save Karen's life.

"If the Judge is targeting Darkside now as well as Sam Winchester, we can't keep letting you go out at night," Rogers speaks up for the first time, sliding his phone into his pocket—he must have been calling either Tony or a doctor—and rejoining the others. "It's too dangerous."

"I can handle myself." Sam defends. "The only reason I didn't teleport away is that Natasha was still there."

"Regardless, I can't in good conscience let you go out without sufficient backup," Rogers says. "One Avenger clearly isn't enough, not with the sheer number of people apparently working for the Judge."

"How about, like, three?" Clint suggests.

"At a minimum," Rogers replies. "I know I can't stop you from being Darkside, Sam, but I can at least try to make sure you aren't killed doing it."

"I'm sorry Natasha was hurt," Sam says. "She only got hit because she was warning me."

"She'll be fine," Clint says. "Just taking a long nap. But I think Steve may have had the right idea about you not going out, at least for a couple of days."

"Well, I'm going to the prison in two days." Sam points out. "So why don't I skip tomorrow night?"

"That sounds good," Rogers says, nodding wisely. "No patrol tomorrow, and after we get back from the prison Friday night, three Avengers will be on rotation for babysitting duty instead of just one."

"I'm going to take Natasha to the medical floor." Clint decides, lifting his friend into his arms bridal style as he speaks and carefully climbing to his feet. He heads for the elevator and Sam follows, ready to down a couple of Advil—teleporting any more people than just himself always gives him a headache—and go to sleep. He's almost made it to the elevator before his tired brain finally finishes processing Rogers's words and he stops in his tracks, turning around.

"After we get back from the prison?" Sam repeats, and Rogers smiles, nodding.

"Murdock asked me if I would be willing to accompany you, rather than a federal security detail," Rogers says. "I agreed." Sam just nods slowly, unable—or maybe unwilling—to voice how grateful he is. "I'm heading to DC in the morning to speak to Congress about the Wakandan outreach efforts, but I'll be back by midnight and we can head to the prison Friday morning."

"Sounds, uh, sounds good," Sam says awkwardly, stepping into the elevator with an awkward wave that Rogers returns. When the elevator doors close, Sam looks up at the ceiling—he knows JARVIS isn't actually in the ceiling but it's become a habit to look toward wherever he imagines a camera might be whenever he addresses the AI—and frowns. He's never really used any of JARVIS's capabilities, mostly because he wasn't sure they would work, but while he was talking to Captain Rogers, he had an idea. "I'm too tired to call right now, but is there any way you can get a message to Jody Mills for me?"

"Of course, Sam," JARVIS says politely. "What would you like the message to Sheriff Jody Mills to say?"

"Ask her if she or one of the girls can get something from the bunker for me," Sam says with a smile. "Before Friday."


	24. Chapter 24

As the car slows to a stop outside the prison gates, Captain Rogers pulls a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket, smiling sympathetically.

"One of the terms of the agreement." He says, and Sam nods, holding out his wrists and allowing the hero to snap the cuffs closed around them. Getting the FBI to agree to one of the Avengers accompanying Sam was apparently more difficult than getting Captain Rogers himself to accept, and involved a day of negotiations Thursday between Matt and Foggy, the prosecutors, SHIELD, and the FBI. Eventually, Rogers was allowed to accompany Sam, on several conditions—one being that Sam is handcuffed any time he's not in a locked room.

Upon entering the prison, Sam is searched extensively for weapons, while Captain Rogers is waved through with a couple of salutes and several curious looks toward the hero—they've probably never seen him in everyday clothes before. The pair is ushered down two long hallways accompanied by a large group of guards that begin to peel off one by one, dissuaded from continuing forward by the glare permanently affixed to Rogers's face.

As the pair approaches the interrogation room, Sam finds himself repeatedly glancing at the man walking beside him. Captain Steve Rogers is walking down this hallway at Sam's side in a white t-shirt, a blue jacket, and a pair of jeans. He looks normal, which Sam can barely wrap his head around, only slightly more so than the fact that Rogers _chose_ to be here. _Chose_ to protect an accused terrorist so he can visit his big brother.

"Thank you," Sam says suddenly, stopping in his tracks just yards from the door and turning to Captain Rogers, who smiles. "Thank you for coming here with me."

"Why wouldn't I come?" Rogers asks, and he sounds genuinely curious. "I may not have been the most welcoming to you, but I do believe that you're innocent of the Lebanon bombing"—but not the rest, Sam's mind unhelpfully supplies—"and I don't think you're as bad of a person as the world seems to want me to think." Speechless, Sam just nods, a little bit of his brother's hero-worship bleeding through as he catches a glimpse of the man Steve Rogers truly is. The 40s propaganda and superhero-centered media have long painted Captain America as a man who fights Nazis and lives for war, for violence, but Sam doesn't think that's true. He's pretty sure that Steve Rogers joined the war not to fight but to  _end_  the fighting—and maybe he's like Dean and he likes the fight, or maybe he's like Sam and doesn't know how to live without it, but he's like both of them in that he doesn't want the war to continue if it means innocent people will keep getting hurt.

He's a good person, there's no doubt about that. A much better person than Sam will ever be.

Sam takes another step forward, finding himself hesitant for an entirely different reason now. Dean is just feet away from him, but the cold metal door that separates the brothers is a daunting reminder of the obstacles they both have faced in the year they've been apart. Sam knows he's a different person now than he was the last time he saw Dean, knows his brother probably is, too. Sam is aware that it's an irrational fear, but he can't help but worry that Dean won't accept him anymore. Won't accept the Sam that was born out of the dust of Lebanon, the Sam that was created in a blood-splattered basement by a demon with glowing yellow eyes. The Sam that has flashbacks every time he probes too deeply at his fragmented memories, that cringes every time he hears his own last name. The Sam that Dean doesn't know, not yet, not really.

In the end, it's Captain Rogers who finally takes action, opening the door and ushering Sam inside.

"Sammy?" The voice is familiar but foreign, permanently imprinted on Sam's mind but faint in his scrambled memories. Hearing that voice again very nearly sends Sam crashing to his knees but he's held up by the arms that wrap around him, by the hand that grabs the back of his head and pulls him close and refuses to let go. Sam doesn't hug back, can't with the handcuffs still fastened around his wrists, but he buries his face in his brother's shoulder and shudders, the emotions hitting him like a wave, all at once, threatening to drown him.

But for the first time in a year, Sam's lifesaver is within reach.

Today is November 16, 2018. It's been one year, one month, and eleven days— _407 days_ —since the Winchester brothers were last together. And standing here now with his brother's arms around him, Sam has never been hated a number more in his life.

"God, it's good to see you, Sammy," Dean says, pulling away and looking his brother up and down. He frowns at the handcuffs, at the fading bruises on Sam's face from his encounter with the Judge two days ago, at the way Sam's hair curls at his shoulders. "You desperately need a haircut." Dean decides, and Sam laughs a real, genuine, unexpected laugh.

"You look... good," Sam says, smiling at his big brother. Dean's dressed in the bright orange jumpsuit Sam expected to see but his hair is combed and his face is groomed and, most importantly, his wrists are free of the shackles that encircle Sam's. Dean seems to notice this disparity as well because he grabs one of Sam's hands, lifting it and glaring at the metal circlet as if his expression alone is enough to unlock the cuffs.

"Allow me," Rogers speaks up for the first time, stepping between the brothers and quickly unlocking and removing the cuffs. Now that the initial reunion has been done, Dean is apparently noticing Sam's guest for the first time, because his eyes practically bug out of his head when he realizes who exactly it is that is standing in front of him.

"You're... Son of a..." Dean shakes his head and Sam laughs again, watching as Rogers nods, smiling to Sam before ducking out of the room and closing the door—another benefit of yesterday's negotiations was that the brothers were allowed to have the room to themselves. "You brought freaking Captain America?" Dean asks in disbelief and Sam nods.

"I figured you'd like that." He says. "I would have brought Natasha but I figured you wouldn't want to get punched."

"Two things," Dean says, holding up two fingers as he speaks. "One, I would  _love_  to be punched by the Black Widow, are you kidding me? And two, you're on first name basis with the Black Widow?" Sam sighs and nods, gesturing to the table. Dean walks in that direction but avoids the table, choosing instead to lean against the wall with his arms crossed. Sam sits down on the edge of the table, resting his right ankle on his left knee.

"The Avengers have been... nice," Sam says. "Kind. A few have become friends. Most of them tolerate me. Natasha's in the former group. Captain Rogers is in the latter." Dean frowns at this but doesn't comment, glancing at the camera in the room—it's supposedly recording everything the brothers do and say, but according to Rogers, the audio is 'malfunctioning,' which Sam is going to have to thank Tony for when he gets back from California. "God, this has probably been the longest year of my life," Sam says, shaking his head. "And I don't even remember half of it."

"What do you remember?" Dean asks somberly. "About Lebanon?" Sam hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek as he thinks.

"I remember October 2nd, or at least, a little bit of it." Sam begins. "I remember reading the paper, a story about suspicious deaths in Lebanon, remember that they were obviously the work of demons." Dean glances worriedly at the camera at this but Sam waves him off. "It's handled. Video, no audio." Dean nods skeptically but gestures for Sam to continue. "Then nothing. Nothing until the 5th, until we were inside that Biggerson's. I remember finding the bomb, remember warning you, running. Trying to get people out." Sam pauses, shaking his head. "I stopped, to try to get this little girl, maybe five years old, to safety. And then the bomb went off." Dean winces, horror in his eyes. "I was knocked backward into a telephone pole, I think. Hit my head really hard, got knocked out. Woke up to the city in shambles, sirens and dust in the air, and this... this  _pain_  like I've never felt before in my leg. Like... like I was back in the Cage with Lucifer tearing me limb from limb." Sam shakes his head again as if the action will dislodge the memories that stick like burrs in his mind. "And then I blacked out again. Woke up a few more times, a few more flashes of hazy streets. I was out of it. Probably concussed, badly. And the last time, a man was standing there. A man with black eyes." Dean curses out loud at this, clenching his fists and his teeth and shaking his head over and over again.

"Damn it, Sammy." He says mostly to himself, just shaking his head like he's trying to deny it, like it might not be true if he refuses to accept it.

"I woke up in a basement, tied to a table," Sam says. "Asmodeus was there, I remember that. There may have been another demon, or it may have just been him. But they amputated my leg, or at least, what was left of it." Sam pulls the leg of his jeans up a bit, revealing the metal ankle that lies beneath. Dean's vision goes ghostly white at the sight and he shakes his head again.

"Does it... Does it hurt?" He asks, sounding like he doesn't really want to know the answer.

"Not anymore," Sam says. "It hurt like hell in that room on that table. Just demons with surgical tools, no kind of medication, a massive concussion, god knows what other damage. They cut the nerve endings in my thigh." Dean still looks turn, pained, like the knife that severed Sam's leg was turned into his heart. "I can't feel it anymore, Dean. It doesn't hurt." Sam insists. Dean just nods, Sam's words clearly not enough to assuage his worry. "I don't remember much of those four months." Sam continues forward, hoping to stop his brother's line of thought before it can begin—Dean shares Sam's tendency to shoulder the blame, and this is one thing Sam can't possibly allow Dean to take responsibility for. "Just flashes, mostly. Disjointed nightmares. Torture, the old-fashioned way. Needles full of demon blood going into my arms, my neck, my chest. The first time I broke the chains around my wrists and he looked  _happy_."

"Four months," Dean says sourly, shaking his head. "Four freaking months."

"You couldn't have done anything, Dean," Sam says quickly. "Even if you weren't in custody, you wouldn't have been able to do anything."

"How did you get out?" Dean asks, distinctly uncomfortable with the topic.

"I don't remember, really," Sam admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "I remember that it was raining, that I had a sock on my metal foot and nothing on the other one. I remember knowing that I was being chased but not quite sure who I was even running from. And then Daredevil found me." Dean looks up at this, and Sam realizes that this is the part that he's never told his brother, the part that he couldn't say over the video call when everyone was looking over his shoulder.

"Daredevil?" Dean repeats, and Sam nods.

"He found me huddled in an alleyway," Sam says. "I was bleeding, mind shattered into a million pieces, maybe even drugged. I could barely stand, had this rusty metal crutch in my hand. And he tried to talk to me, and when he figured out I was terrified of him, of everyone, he just left me the phone number of a nurse and left. And then the next night he came back to check on me and saved my life."

"What happened?" Dean asks.

"I was stabbed," Sam admits. "Saw a guy trying to attack a drunk girl and tried to step in, even though I could barely walk in a straight line. Got myself stabbed, and Daredevil stepped in." Sam smiles despite himself. "I was scared of everyone, scared that the girl I was trying to save was a demon, scared that the guy was. So I grabbed her black scarf and wrapped it around my face to cover my mouth, as if that would have helped any if they had been demons."

"And created Darkside," Dean says, and Sam nods again.

"Daredevil brought me to his nurse friend, Claire's house." Sam continues. "She patched me up, gave me some clean clothes and a shower and some food. Told me about Lebanon, because I didn't remember then. Didn't remember any of it. And when I found out, I left. Panicked, accidentally turned my eyes yellow, and crushed her doorknob in my hand on the way out. Figured out pretty quickly that the abilities I didn't even know I had were influenced by my emotions." Sam laughs halfheartedly. "Took me forever to figure out what I could even do. Didn't know I could teleport until the day I gave myself a name at that convention center."

"Darkside," Dean says simply.

"Daredevil and Claire and a few of their friends helped me find my way," Sam says. "Helped me figure out how to control the powers Asmodeus gave me, helped me use them for good. Daredevil's friend made me a mask and a bulletproof jacket, and when I was shot in that bank robbery, Claire is the one who saved my life." Dean nods. "And, of course, Jody and her girls helped."

"You've been in contact with them?" Dean asks, surprised.

"Ran into Claire on complete accident," Sam admits. "I was doing hunts on the side whenever I came across one, until I started living with the Avengers at least. One of the first ones was a ghost in Queens, a little girl. Went to salt and burn the bones and Claire Novak showed up to do the same thing. Saw Sam Winchester lying in a graveyard with a prosthetic leg and yellow eyes and assumed the worst. Once I convinced her and Jody I wasn't actually a demon, they helped me out. Got me a new prosthetic, supplied me with money and food and stuff whenever they were in town. Then got kidnapped by the Demon when he went after me."

"Damn," Dean says, shaking his head. "I assume they're alright, though." Sam nods quickly.

"I just spoke to Jody yesterday, actually." He says, digging into his pocket and pulling out a single worn Captain America trading card. "She went to the bunker, grabbed me a few things and picked this up while she was there." Sam doesn't admit that Jody was only at the bunker because he asked her to go, asked her to grab the trading cards his brother never admitted to loving. Sam knows that Dean can't keep it with him, but he wanted to bring a piece of home with him the only way he knew how.

"Have you been back?" Dean asks. "Since the bombing?" Sam shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek.

"I haven't even left New York since the bombing." He admits. "Asmodeus held me somewhere in Manhattan, I'm pretty sure, and between the Demon and the Judge and this trial, I haven't really had the chance to leave."

"I can't help but wonder what happened to my stuff." Dean muses. "My gun, my boots, all the weapons in the trunk, Baby, of course, and the amulet necklace I was wearing around my neck when I was arrested." Sam sets the trading card down on the table beside him and pulls on the cord hanging around his neck, revealing the amulet that rests over his heart. Dean's eyes widen and he grins, nodding in approval. "Shoulda known you would have it, considering you did the last time."

"I just got it back a few weeks ago, actually," Sam says. "Pepper Potts, the CEO of Stark Industries, retrieved it from evidence lockup as thanks for my help."

"What'd you do?" Dean asks curiously.

"Helped her solve a case," Sam says, face heating up a bit. "An employee was suing the company, claimed the Stark Industries car he was driving had faulty brakes and that's why he crashed. I helped her prove that not only were the brakes fine, but he also didn't even try to use them."

"I knew all those lessons would help one day," Dean says with a laugh, and Sam nods, frowning to himself.

"What about you?" He asks. "What do you remember?" He doesn't have to specify what. Sam told his story. Now it's time for Dean's.

"Well, I remember that article you mentioned." Dean begins. "Remember Cas calling a few hours later, confirming that there were demons in Lebanon and saying that they were there for us, trying to draw us out. They knew we were in Lebanon, but not where exactly." Sam nods slowly—he had always assumed that the demons had planted the bomb, that the attack was not carried out  _by_  Sam and Dean but  _because_  of them, but hearing it confirmed is simultaneously relieving and painful—and Dean smiles grimly before continuing. "We managed to capture one of the bastards, and we  _persuaded_  him to tell us his plan. That was October 5th, at maybe three in the afternoon. He told us about the bomb, and we headed into town to stop it. Only it was bigger than we thought, and it was too late. All we could do was run." Dean shakes his head, digging his fingernails into the fabric covering his legs.

This experience was just as painful for him as it was for Sam, at least mentally. Sam knew that or at least assumed it, but watching his brother struggle through this somehow makes it a million times worse.

"We split up, you headed toward the city center but I headed for the car. When I got to the Impala, the police were already there, waiting. They arrested me on the spot, not because they recognized me but because I was the only one running away before the bomb detonated. It wasn't until I reached the precinct an hour later that they figured out who I was." Dean shakes his head. "Got processed, sent to Kansas City, then to DC. It took two days for me to realize that you hadn't been arrested. I badgered them into giving me a phone call and your phone went straight to voicemail. And when the months started passing with no sign of you, everyone decided you had died. And I insisted you were alive but I couldn't stop wondering if maybe, just maybe, you hadn't made it out in time. And then they found your leg under a pile of concrete that used to be a building and I finally believed it."

"And then you went to trial and they gave you life." Sam fills in the rest, shaking his head. "And now here we are."

"How'd you get caught?" Dean asks suddenly. "I know you were found unconscious in an alleyway, but how'd you end up there?"

"The day you were convicted, I kind of lost it," Sam says awkwardly. "Went a little too far, beat a gang member within an inch of his life. A couple days later, his buddies jumped me. Destroyed my prosthetic so I couldn't run, beat me up and rang my bell well enough to mess with my abilities so I couldn't teleport away, either. Then they called the cops and announced that Sam Winchester was waiting in an alley. Passed out after the call and woke up in the hospital with my wrist handcuffed to the bedrail. You know the rest." Dean nods solemnly.

"I'm glad the Avengers let you keep going out." He says after a minute. "Darkside, that's something incredible. That's saving people in a way we never could before. The right way, or at least a hell of a lot closer to it."

"The Judge doesn't seem to think so," Sam replies. "He's not just after Sam Winchester anymore. He's after you too, Dean, and Darkside."

"Well if he wants to break into supermax he can be my guest," Dean says. "And it sounds like you can take care of yourself out there. And if not, well, you've got quite the group of friends watching your back." Dean looks pained when he says that, seems almost angry that he can't be the one protecting Sam right now.

The door opens and Rogers steps back inside, smiling regretfully at the brothers.

"Time's up." He merely says, holding up the handcuffs.

"We're going to talk again, soon, Dean," Sam says. "And as soon as my trial is done, my lawyers are going to appeal your conviction. We'll get you out of this."

"I know you will, Sammy," Dean says with a smile. "But don't worry about me just yet. Help yourself first, alright?" Sam nods, standing and stepping closer to his brother. He wraps his arms around Dean and closes his eyes, committing every detail of his brother to memory—he still doesn't know everything he's forgotten, but he refuses to forget anything about Dean.

After a minute, Sam pulls back and nods to his brother, who mimics the action with a steely gaze slipping over his expression. Sam walks over to Rogers, who fastens the handcuffs back around Sam's wrists. As the two leave the room, Sam glances over his shoulder, watching as Dean waves him off, a wide grin on his face that does nothing to hide the worry in his eyes—or the pride.

Sam follows Rogers down the hallway in a daze, Dean's face burning into his mind. Sam can't leave Dean alone in here. He won't. He's going to fight with everything he has to get Dean's conviction overturned, to prove both of the Winchester brothers innocent no matter what it takes. That was, of course, already the plan, but seeing his brother, seeing the prison he's trapped in has made Sam all the more determined to get Dean out as soon as possible.

The right way.

Rogers pushes the last door of the prison open and Sam is yanked brutally from his mind by a sea of a thousand flashing lights. Rogers's hand finds Sam's shoulder and grabs it tightly, pulling Sam to a stop as he lifts his hand, shading his eyes against the onslaught of cameras.

"Damn," Rogers mutters under his breath as Sam squints, trying to see through the crowd of reporters. He should have known that regardless of how secret the FBI and SHIELD attempted to make this meeting, the press would find out. And Captain America visiting a convicted terrorist alongside that terrorist's brother, who just so happens to be living at Avengers Tower during his trial? That's just asking for the full media circus. And yet, there's something about the situation—other than the reporters—that's putting Sam on edge. Something almost... familiar about it.

Sam only sees him for a split second, but that's all it takes.

"Steve!" Sam yells in warning as the Judge smiles, sunlight reflecting off of the gun in his hand. The sound of the weapon going off is masked by the chattering of the reporters but the unmistakable sound of a bullet tearing through flesh silences everyone instantly. Sam doesn't even have time to process how Rogers got in front of him before the blond soldier collapses to the ground, one hand pressed against the growing red stain on his white shirt. Sam stares down at Rogers and the Captain just smiles weakly, his expression steady enough, calm enough that it fools the reporters into thinking that everything is alright.

It doesn't fool Sam.

Sam learned a long time ago that people can change their faces all they like, but their eyes will never lie. And even though Rogers's face is the picture of ease, his eyes betray his fear, his pain.

Something is shoved into Sam's hands and he instinctively wraps his fingers around it, eyes never straying from Rogers's face.

"He shot Captain America!" Someone shouts, and Sam tears his eyes away from Rogers. He has to find the Judge, has to catch him. Has to make him pay for what he's done.

"Sam," Rogers says urgently, his voice barely reaching Sam's ears, and Sam looks down at him with fear building in the pit of his stomach. Rogers's face is pale, too pale—can he even die from a bullet wound? Would the supersoldier serum let him?—but the worry in his eyes isn't directed at the hole in his chest but at Sam, or rather, at the object clasped tightly in Sam's hands.

It takes far too long for Sam to realize that he was handed a loaded handgun, and by the time he does, it's too late.

"Winchester, drop the weapon and get on your knees!" A voice yells from the doorway behind Sam. Security guards begin to appear, weaving their way through the crowd, forcing the reporters back and creating a barricade around Rogers, around Sam. Guards swarm Rogers with first aid kits and phones in hand but they surround Sam with tasers and guns and Sam drops to his knees, drops the gun at his feet and lifts his hands above his head, handcuffs rattling. He knows, of course, that he didn't shoot Captain Rogers—Rogers knows it, too. But Sam also knows that the gun that was shoved into his hands will match the bullet in Rogers's chest and that's all an already biased jury will need to send Sam straight to death row.

"He didn't shoot me!" Rogers exclaims, but his words are drowned out by the frantic guards, the screaming reporters, the sirens of the arriving ambulance. "He didn't..." The words fall away into nothing and Sam watches in horror as Captain Rogers falls limp, eyes slipping closed and hands falling away from his chest.

"Alright, you know the drill, let's go." One of the guards says as he drags Sam to his feet by the chain connecting the handcuffs. As Sam is led to the nearest police cruiser, he finds himself scanning the crowd once again. He sees several reporters gaping back at him, several more glaring, and a few openly crying. He sees Captain Rogers being loaded onto a stretcher, and he watches until that stretcher disappears into the back of an ambulance, headed to a nearby hospital and then probably back to Avengers Tower. Sam figures that he'll end up back in New York as well, probably back in the very same cell where the Judge attacked him last month.

And speaking of the Judge, as the ambulance pulls away and the door of the cruiser and shut behind Sam, Sam sees him, too. He's standing down the street, stonefaced and frozen, unnoticed in the chaos by everyone but Sam.

As the cruiser moves down the street and passes the statuesque man, Sam catches the corner of his mouth turning up in a sinister smile.


	25. Chapter 25

"You and I both know that he didn't do it."

Sam watches distractedly as Matt directs a tight smile toward Detective Mahoney's mouth, his cane gripped tightly between two sets of white knuckles as the lawyer repeats his earlier argument.

"In fact," Matt continues, " _everyone_ knows that he didn't do it. 30-some-odd reporters and cameramen were watching and at least five videos caught the exact moment Captain Rogers was shot. There was no gun in Sam Winchester's hands, and the bullet didn't even come from his direction in the first place."

"It's not up to me, Murdock," Mahoney says tiredly. "I'm here on protection detail, I'm not the boss."

"At least there's a protection detail," Matt mutters, shaking his head. "There's no point in keeping Sam here, is what I'm saying. He's safer at Avengers Tower. Safer from the Judge." Mahoney nods in agreement, then frowns, glancing at Sam.

"But are _they_?" He questions and Sam's entire outlook falters.

Sam's arrangement with the Avengers revolves around their ability to protect him. But the shooting at the prison suggests that maybe, Sam isn't the one who needs defending. If Captain America can get shot trying to protect Sam, the lives of the rest of the Avengers are also at risk—probably even more so since they don't have the same level of superhuman protection that Rogers does.

It's been five hours since the shooting, five hours since Captain Rogers was loaded into an ambulance and Sam into the back of a police cruiser. Matt has been in the room with Sam since he arrived back at the precinct, standing steadfast on the other side of the bars of Sam's holding cell as if making a personal protest against the NYPD's treatment of Sam. Foggy has come and gone a few times, almost always entering the room with his cell phone tucked between his chin and shoulder and a notepad covered in frantic comments in his hands. He spends most of his visits conversing with Matt in hushed whispers too low for even Sam's enhanced hearing to pick up on—not that he's really trying. But Foggy does occasionally address Sam himself, mostly to offer updates courtesy of Tony on Captain Rogers's condition. According to Foggy, Rogers has been in surgery for hours in an attempt to remove the bullet that was lodged in his collarbone just above his heart. Two inches south and Rogers would have been struck directly in the heart and probably would have died long before the Judge could shove that gun into Sam's hands.

The fact that the bullet was meant for Sam hasn't escaped him, hasn't stopped echoing in his mind over and over again. Captain Rogers was always going to take that bullet for Sam—at some point in the past few hours, Sam realized that the familiarity of the scene was caused by its appearance in a vision, although when exactly that vision happened he isn't sure—but Sam wishes he could have stopped it, could have pushed Rogers out of the way. Wishes he had taken the bullet meant for him if anyone had to at all.

As of Foggy's last update, Rogers is alive. But Sam doesn't know if that piece of good news will last.

He can only pray that Rogers is able to pull through.

Nightfall brings a chill in the air that settles deep in the foundation of the precinct, in the cold metal bars and the cinderblock walls and the uncomfortable cot. The unforgiving freeze finds its way into Sam's bones and makes a home there, burying itself in his skin, moving quickly through his t-shirt and into his chest, into his heart.

The last night Sam spent in this cell brought memories of Lebanon and a beating at the hands of the Judge. Tonight, Sam has an officer posted outside his cell door, but the soft snoring that filters through the air does little to assuage Sam's fears of another attack.

Sam lies awake for hours worrying about the Judge, only to discover that he should have been afraid of something else entirely.

He's just managed to doze off, half-asleep and drowsy when he hears the telltale creaking of the cell door and his eyes fly open. Sam raises his fists against his attacker, expecting the Judge but finding himself face-to-face with the night guard—Officer Richards, he begrudgingly introduced himself as—instead.

"I'm about to switch out," Richards explains groggily—he must have just woken up—as he holds up a pair of handcuffs. "Need to take a piss?" Sam shrugs, absentmindedly holding out his hands—he doesn't particularly need to pee, but who knows when he'll get another chance? Richards snaps the handcuffs around Sam's wrists then turns, heading for the door. Sam lags behind, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles and frowning when he hears two sets of footsteps enter the room rather than one leaving. When Sam opens his eyes, there's a gun aimed right between his eyes and Officer Richards is standing behind it, looking a lot more awake than he did a second ago.

"So I'm guessing this isn't a bathroom break?" Sam asks tiredly, a hint of panic in his tone that he shoves down fast, watching the trio of cops warily. He's seen the other two around, he's sure—at this point, he's met pretty much everyone at the precinct at least once in passing—but he's never interacted with them directly, and he has no idea what their names are. But he knows for a fact that they're pissed, and he's guessing that their anger is directed at him.

"Peter Washington." One of the two newcomers—he's the only one of the three not dressed in a police uniform, but the badge hanging around his neck suggests he's a cop, possibly a detective—says darkly and Sam frowns, lifting his hands placatingly as he steps back away from the gun. "He was the best damn cop I'd ever met, and you killed him." Sam's heart sinks into his stomach when he realizes why the name sounded vaguely familiar.

Months ago, Sam read a list of every victim of the Lebanon bombing. He tried to commit every name to memory, tried to keep them at the back of his mind as if their deaths would hold him accountable. He forgot several of the names and the rest are fuzzy, but the detective's words pull one name out of the haze.

Peter Washington was a police officer who died in Lebanon. And from the sound of it, he used to live and work in Manhattan.

When a fist connects with Sam's jaw and sends him stumbling backward, he can't say he's entirely surprised.

The reason for the handcuffs becomes obvious when Sam raises his hands to defend himself against his unexpected adversaries, only to have the unnamed cop grab the chain connecting Sam's wrists and slam it up into the bars of the cell behind him. Sam's hands are forced into the cell, held together by the metal circlets on his wrists and the chain that links them. A blow to Sam's stomach has him kicking out instinctively, and Richards is quick to step closer, centering his gun on Sam's forehead and sending him a glare that just dares Sam to act out.

Sam glares back but remains silent, unwilling to be the second person shot in 24 hours—he hasn't heard any news on Captain Rogers since Matt left six hours ago, but he'd prefer that neither of them died tonight.

Sam doesn't know if Richards and his friends were the only officers who had a connection to Peter Washington or if they were just the only ones willing to act on their anger, but after about seven punches to Sam's gut—the cops appear to be going for maximum pain and minimal visible bruising—he's just glad there's only three of them. The three men are smaller than Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but they do a lot more combined damage than the Judge, and Sam knows that he's going to be feeling this one for a while—and the fact that he has other recent instances of physical abuse to compare this one to is testament to just how screwed up his life is right now.

This is the fourth time Sam has had the shit beat out of him in two months and frankly, he's getting tired of it.

The pair of hands wrapping around Sam's throat yank him roughly out of his thoughts and he automatically squirms, only to stiffen when the barrel of Richards's gun digs into the side of his temple. Another fist drives into Sam's gut, and he grunts through closed lips, swallowing any further noise and glancing at the blinking exit sign that periodically throws the room into shades of red—apparently, no one has bothered to fix it since Sam's last stay here, or maybe no one but Sam has even noticed. It's almost taunting, that blinking light. Laughing at Sam as he's punched again and curls in on himself, a persistent reminder that while some things have drastically changed since Sam was last in this room, others have stayed very much the same.

The door opens again, and Sam closes his eyes, bracing himself for a fourth attacker to join the fight. The footsteps stalk closer and then suddenly the world outside Sam's eyelids is bathed with light and a familiar voice Sam never thought would be welcoming is shouting loudly.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Detective Mahoney exclaims, and the hands disappear from Sam's throat a second before the gun disappears from his head. He opens his eyes and looks up to see Mahoney standing a few feet away, his arms crossed and a rage Sam has never seen before in his eyes. "You are a disgrace, all of you. Get out of here." Mahoney's orders are brief, but his tone makes it clear that the conversation is not over, and the three men slide hesitantly past him, wary of the detective's anger. Once the three are gone, Mahoney approaches Sam—who is wheezing quietly, trying to catch his breath—and stops when Sam flinches back instinctively, lowering his chained hands to his torso and hugging his stomach as he carefully pushes his way to his feet.

"Thanks," Sam says, his voice gruff and scratchy from the partial strangling that Mahoney interrupted. The cell door is still open, and Sam limps unsteadily inside, sitting down hard on the cot and leaning back against the cold stone wall that suddenly feels a lot more refreshing.

"I'm sorry about them," Mahoney says, and to Sam's surprise, he sounds like he actually means it. The detective wasn't a fan of Sam when they first met—both as Darkside and as Sam Winchester—but it's clear that both personas have grown on him, and even though Mahoney can't possibly see the parallels, Sam can. And he's grateful for Mahoney's patience. "Regardless of what you may or may not have done, no cop should be acting that way." Mahoney's stern words are accompanied by light footfalls as he enters the cell, holding up his keyring and jingling it lightly as he gestures to Sam's hands. "Let me get those off for you?" It's not phrased as a question, but it clearly is one, Mahoney asking Sam for permission before he approaches, treating him not only as a human being but like one who might be a little bit nervous around a cop right now. Sam nods, holding out his wrists and watching as Mahoney expertly fits the key into the lock on his left wrist, twisting and freeing Sam's wrist then repeating the action with the right. As soon as his hands are released, Sam hugs his stomach, grimacing as he lightly probes the bruises that are surely forming beneath his shirt in search of more severe damage.

"I'm sorry, too," Sam says softly, looking up at Mahoney, who is examining the handcuffs. Sam waits until the detective meets his gaze to continue. "For the lives that were lost, for their friend, for all of them. What happened in Lebanon was terrible." Mahoney eyes Sam curiously and Sam shakes his head, sighing. "My brother and I didn't set that bomb." He insists. "But that doesn't mean I don't feel guilty about surviving it."

"Taking the blame for something that isn't your fault," Mahoney says. "Not on the judiciary scale but on the personal one. That's probably the most human I've ever seen you."

"I'm human." Sam immediately replies, shaking his head. "I'm afraid when a gun is pointed at me, when a city crumbles to dust around me, when the world tells me I deserve to die. I'm ashamed when insults are lobbed in my direction, when the media defames me. I'm lonely, and sad, and desperate because I've never been in a situation like this before, never been this hopeless before, and my big brother is in prison. I'm human. Dean is human. _We're_ human." Mahoney nods, pocketing the handcuffs and leaning back against the bars of the cell with his arms crossed.

"There's evidence stacked against you, you have to understand," Mahoney says. "Not just the Lebanon bombing but before that, over a decade of murder and kidnappings and it all comes together to show two brothers on a road trip and the trail of bodies they left in their wake."

"I'm not saying that Dean and I are perfect," Sam says. "We aren't perfect, far from it. But we aren't the psychotic killers the world thinks we are. We're human beings who have to live with the aftermath of someone else's decision, who are constantly trying to overcome our disadvantages, who have made mistakes that we'll never stop trying to make up for. We're human beings who have been subjected time and time again to unimaginable pain, who have lost everything and everyone we love and every shred of innocence we may have had once upon a time." Sam looks up at Mahoney, desperation in his eyes. "My brother and I are not terrorists. We are not monsters. Our entire lives have been one tragedy after another, one mistake after another, but we've never stopped fighting. We've had our humanity stripped away from us, had the entire world turned against us, but we've always had each other, and we've clung to that. Clung to that little piece of normal in our lives, only to have it torn away by Lebanon." Sam shakes his head.

This is something he's needed to say for far too long—maybe not to Detective Mahoney, but to the world.

"If this trial ends up going in my favor, I'll never be able to return to Lebanon," Sam says. "I'll never be able to sleep straight through the night." He pauses again, swallowing hard. "Dean and I are broken, shattered into pieces and crushed into dust, but we're still human. We still deserve the decency you give to the rest of the world."

Mahoney is silent, and Sam presses forward, desperate to make him understand the pain that Sam has felt every day when he listens to the insults thrown at him outside the courthouse, every morning when he sees his face in the picture next to his brother's mugshot and the word 'terrorist' or 'monster' printed above them in big block letters for all the world to see.

"We still deserve the chance to be human," Sam says, and Mahoney nods solemnly, pushing off of the cell wall and standing straight and tall.

"You do deserve to be treated like human beings." Mahoney agrees. "And you will be. Clearly, this precinct is not equipped to handle that. So after I get a doctor in here to take a look at you, I'm going to be your protection detail for the rest of the night. And come morning, I'm going to have you sent back to Avengers Tower."

"Can you do that?" Sam questions—Mahoney has authority but not _that_ much authority—and the detective just grins.

"After I tell the chief what happened here tonight, he'll be tripping over his own feet to get you out of his hair," Mahoney says. "You could sue the department for what happened to you. As of right now, you could ask for pretty much anything, and they'll give it to you to keep you from pressing charges." Sam returns the smile, nodding to himself. Richards and his friends made a mistake doing what they did. They gave Sam the very power they were trying to strip away. The power to be human again. And he could use it to get revenge, to punish them, to punish every cop in this precinct. But he won't. He'll use it to get back to Avengers Tower—back to where he belongs.

And if Mahoney knew who Sam really was, he would know that Sam would never sue the precinct, would never press charges against those men.

Sam Winchester is a better person than the world would like to believe. He's just trying to prove it.


	26. Chapter 26

Detective Mahoney stays true to his word, staying posted outside Sam's cell for the rest of the night. It's surprisingly comforting, having the detective standing there. Sam doesn't sleep that night—between the pain and the potential for nightmares, that isn't entirely a surprise—and neither does Mahoney, but the two don't speak, enjoying the silence and both likely thinking about Sam's impromptu speech. Come morning, Mahoney finally leaves, but not before assigning another cop to stand guard—and making sure Sam knows that the cop, Officer Peaty, is someone he trusts.

Two hours later, Mahoney returns with Matt, Foggy, and a paramedic who does a cursory examination, taking care to ask Sam precisely what he's comfortable with. It's strange, being treated like a person again. Having people ask Sam what he wants, taking the time to make sure he's okay with everything going on. Being treated like that used to feel like coddling, but now it makes him feel safer. It makes him feel human. And that's a feeling he's very much missed.

After the paramedic—a polite woman named Katherine—has determined that Sam has no injuries more severe than superficial bruising, Detective Mahoney informs Sam that he and the two lawyers were able to convince the judge and the FBI to allow Sam to return to Avengers Tower. They head out almost immediately, traveling by car—including Mahoney and Officer Peaty, who are acting as security until they arrive—to the Tower, where Clint and Natasha are waiting. The two spies look surprisingly anxious, their smiles genuine but their eyes filled with what Sam can only interpret as apprehension. The two Avengers thank Detective Mahoney for his help before shuttling Sam, Matt, and Foggy through the lobby and into the elevator.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks as soon as the doors have closed, turning to the two Avengers with his arms crossed. Clint and Natasha exchange a look, and Natasha shakes her head.

"We had a visitor last night." She explains, clearly unhappy with that fact. "The Judge broke into the Tower." Sam's face pales a few shades and Matt and Foggy exchange an anxious look.

"That can't get out," Foggy says after a minute. "If the FBI finds out, they'll say Sam isn't safe here and send him to prison for the rest of his trial."

"That's why we didn't say anything until the cops were gone." Clint acknowledges with a nod. "Unfortunately, that's not even the worst part."

"What's the worst part?" Sam asks hesitantly.

"He told us to stop working with Darkside," Natasha says. "Specifically, that if we continued to house him, we were just as bad as he was and we would be the next ones on his list." Sam shakes his head—the Judge has already proven that he can hurt the Avengers, between shooting Captain Rogers and the attack on Natasha—and then freezes, his entire body stiffening when he picks up on what Natasha was implying with her statement.

"You're sure he said Darkside?" Sam questions as the elevator comes to a stop, and both Avengers nod grimly. "That means he knows who I am," Sam says, glancing worriedly at Matt—if the Judge knows that Sam and Darkside are one and the same, there's a good chance he knows the truth about Matt's identity, too. The elevator doors open to reveal a hallway not unlike the one on the communal floor, with rows of doors lining each side.

"Hey, Sam!" Tony says as he walks out of one of the rooms. "I was wondering when you were going to get here. How's the throat?" Tony nods to the fresh ring of bruises around Sam's throat and Sam shrugs, smiling halfheartedly.

"Well, I'm still here," Sam says. "Far from the first time I've been nearly choked out, likely far from the last." Tony quirks an eyebrow at this but doesn't otherwise comment, gesturing to the room he just exited.

"Well, welcome to the medical floor, I guess. Cap's in there." Tony says, and Sam's eyes widen.

"How is he?" He asks immediately—with the chaos of last night's attack and the news of the Judge's visit, getting an update on Rogers's condition slipped Sam's mind.

"Alive," Tony says, and there's something in his expression that tells Sam that there's a lot more to the story than just that. "He's asleep right now, probably will be for a couple more hours at least. But he's alive, and the doctors are confident he'll make a full recovery." Natasha frowns at this and Sam figures she must have heard the same small hesitation in Tony's tone, the one that suggests he isn't telling the truth—or at least, not all of it. Tony is hiding something about Rogers's condition, but what?

And why?

"We told Sam about the Judge's visit last night," Clint says, changing the subject. Tony nods, frowning.

"What should we do about that, Sasquatch?" Tony asks, and Sam frowns, shaking his head.

"He knows who I am. He has the power to announce to the world that Sam Winchester is Darkside. So why hasn't he?" Sam asks.

"Blackmail," Natasha says immediately. "If the Judge tells the world your biggest secret, he loses any hold he has over you." Sam nods slowly, biting the inside of his cheek as he realizes the implications.

It's like the cops. Sam has power over them now because they don't want him telling the world that he was assaulted by police officers. If Sam tries to get the Judge arrested, he risks the Judge exposing Darkside's identity to the world. It's a precaution, a safety measure, one that keeps the Judge out of Sam's reach. It's blackmail.

And even if the Judge keeps quiet, he'll always have that secret. And he's completely human, so SHIELD can't just make him disappear. He'll live the rest of his life with that secret, holding it over Sam's head.

And who knows what he'll be able to do to Sam with that kind of power.

Without another word, Sam pushes past Tony and enters the room where Captain Rogers lies still, his face too pale. This is what the Judge can do. This is what Sam has to stop. He can't let anyone else get hurt, not like this. Can't allow the Judge to put a bullet in the chest of one of the world's mightiest heroes. Not when Sam knows full well that it's his fault they would be in the line of fire in the first place. The Judge has to be stopped, and Sam has to be the one to bring him in.

But is he willing to risk his own life to do it?

Sam's hesitation tells him all he needs to know. And he's never hated himself more for it.

* * *

Sam doesn't remember going to the gym floor. He doesn't remember getting in the elevator and telling JARVIS to take him down, or taking the stairs. He doesn't remember even leaving the room where Captain Steve Rogers is lying unconscious on a hospital bed that's just a little too small for him.

But he must have because Sam finds himself throwing punch after punch, hitting a bag so hard the seams split and sand pours onto the floor. And he must have been here a while, because several other broken bags are lying on the floor around him, tossed away like garbage, sand piled around them in a way that reminds Sam of how blood flows from a fatal wound. The comparison makes him shudder but he can't block it out, can't stop himself from seeing faces of people he loved, people he lost, people he killed.

Sam continues to hit the punching bag, even as it deflates. He doesn't stop his barrage until one punch, harder than the rest, sends the bag flying, the metal chain that held it snapped in two. Sam hesitates, somewhat surprised. This apparatus was designed to withstand Captain America.

Merely thinking about the super soldier is enough for Sam's hands to shake, and he looks around for something else to punch.

Without the chain, the rest of the punching bags are useless, and Sam knows he'll easily break any of the other equipment, angry as he is. He's not sure what exactly he's mad at, but he's definitely angry, and Sam figured out months ago that his emotions control his ability. The more scared he is, the stronger his senses are. The happier he is, the faster he heals. The angrier he is, the harder his fists.

Sam turns and aims a fist at the metal wall of the gym, punching it as hard as he can. He recalls someone, probably JARVIS or Dr. Banner, telling him the metal is a thousand times stronger than diamond, that even the Hulk can't punch through it. Sam believes it, especially when he pulls his hand away and the wall doesn't bear so much as a scratch. Satisfied, Sam punches again, funneling all of his anger into his fists. It's like a game. See how angry he can get, see how far he can push until something snaps. On the second punch the wall still doesn't respond, but on the third it gives slightly, moving with Sam's fist but still keeping its shape.

On the fourth punch, the wall reverberates, sending a shockwave through the gym. The entire room moves and Sam clamps his hands over his ears as the vibrations generate a hum, extraordinarily high and ear-piercing despite its low volume. It takes about thirty seconds for the sound to fade, and by then, the elevator door has opened, and Tony, Natasha, and Clint have entered the gym, disbelief written across all of their faces.

The three stare at Sam and Sam stares back, daring them to challenge him, to stop him. He isn't satisfied beating on a wall, he wants to hit someone, wants someone to piss him off, make him angry. Make him willing to punch them. Make him ready to become the person he was always meant to be. The one who cares more about his own safety than the lives of people who mean more to the world than he ever will.

No one says anything, and Sam throws another punch at the wall.

This one sends another shockwave through the gym, and the three Avengers look around uncomfortably as weights clang together, pushed by the vibrations of the room. Sam looks at the wall and is surprised to see that this time, he did leave a mark. There's a rusty red streak on the wall where his fist impacted and slid away. Sam's right hand bears the rest of the evidence, his knuckles raw, split, and bleeding. Acknowledging the injury jumpstarts the pain and Sam's hands begin to ache. He smiles halfheartedly, turning back to the wall and hitting it twice in quick succession, once with each fist.

Both hits send pain shooting through Sam's hands, up his arms, into his chest. It makes him feel alive, it makes him  _feel_ , and he punches again, savoring the fleeting moments of clarity that accompany the pain. In his peripheral vision, the three Avengers stand frozen, legs shaking as Sam's punches vibrate the entire room. After a minute, Natasha peels off, disappearing back into the elevator. Clint heads in the opposite direction, going into the shooting range where he likes to practice. Only Tony remains in place, eyes wide, staring not at Sam but at the destruction around him, the punching bags and sand and broken chains that create a crime scene, illustrate a story of death and survival where Sam is the only one who made it out unscathed.

Sam just keeps punching.

He doesn't stop when Tony turns and follows Clint into the shooting range. He doesn't stop when Natasha returns with Bruce and heads there as well. He doesn't stop until he hears a gun going off, and even then, he only stops because he's forced into a memory.

Sam sees the gun, sees the smirk on the Judge's face, the terror on everyone else's. He sees the bullet, the flash of silver, Captain Rogers' shield. He sees white and blue overtaken by red, sees Captain America fall to his knees, sees the hole in his shirt too close to his heart. He sees the pain in the Captain's eyes and the smile on his face as he fights his way to his feet only to collapse again.

And then Sam sees a bullet going through the forehead of a dirty blond wearing a smirk, a bullet going through the heart of a crying young woman, a bullet going through the back of a balding hunter's head. And he sees the barrel of a shotgun as a shell flies toward his chest. And he sees the business end of a handgun as a bullet buries itself in his stomach.

And then Sam hears the gun go off again and he's back in the gym, and he jumps back as a bullet ricochets off of the wall he was punching moments ago. He turns to the side to see Natasha holding a revolver, and he watches as the spy shoots again, and another bullet bounces off of the wall inches from Sam's head. The gun goes off a third time and Sam lifts a hand, stopping the bullet in midair and letting it drop to the floor. Natasha shoots three more times in quick succession and Sam stops those bullets as well, and when he drops his hands, they all hit the floor together. Then Natasha runs at Sam, face twisted into an expression of false anger, and Sam simply puts up his palm. The redheaded spy is stopped in her tracks, and the Avengers behind her watch as Sam approaches Natasha with a cold resignation in his eyes.

"Why?" He asks simply in an even tone, palm still up, keeping the agent's body still. The question is directed at the Avengers as a whole, although Bruce is the only one who at least has the decency to look nervous.

"I was trying to scare you into stopping," Natasha says, and Sam frowns. He takes another step forward, kicking the broken punching bag aside.

"By shooting at me?" He asks.

"I told her it wouldn't work," Tony says.

"I may not be the serial killer the FBI thinks I am, but that doesn't mean I don't have a history with guns," Sam says, gesturing with his free hand. "I've been shot before, nearly died." He  _has_ died from a gunshot wound before, but that's not exactly something he wants to tell the Avengers. Keeping them in the dark about the supernatural has stopped being entirely about keeping them safe, Sam realizes. Now it's more about distancing himself from them. "If you want to stop me, that's not the way to do it."

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" Tony points out, and Sam barks out a sharp, empty laugh.

"I had a flashback," Sam says. "I get those sometimes. A lot of the time. In nightmares, during the day, constantly. Flashbacks and visions. I'm not sure why, but I do know my head is really messed up."

"You probably have PTSD," Bruce says patiently. "I wouldn't be surprised, considering everything you've been through in the past year or so. And the decade before that."

"My entire life has been one big shitfest, doctor," Sam says, smiling thinly. It feels fake, and he's sure it looks that way, too.

"Sam, we're trying to help you," Bruce says, raising his hands placatingly. It's the same kind of patient coddling as before, the kind that made Sam feel human. Suddenly, Sam doesn't want to feel human. He doesn't want to feel anything at all. "You're self-destructing."

"What else is new?" Sam asks rhetorically. "I'm always screwing something up. It's the only thing I'm good at." He bites the inside of his cheek for a moment, shaking his head.

"That's not true," Bruce replies quickly, too quickly. The kind of fast response that isn't meant, just automatic. Instinct. Sam is familiar with instinct. "You're a hero, Sam. You've saved so many lives in the past year."

"But I've destroyed so many more," Sam says. "52 people died in the Lebanon bombing. All of those lives are on  _me_. All of that blood is on  _my_  hands."

"You didn't set that bomb," Clint says and Sam laughs again. The laugh isn't emotionless this time, it's dark. Pained. Broken.

"No, but I might as well have," Sam replies, eyes flickering yellow as his emotions fight a war against his common sense—a war they seem to be winning. "You don't know what really happened."

"According to Matt Murdock, neither do you." Tony comments.

"I know exactly what happened," Sam reveals, staring the four Avengers down and admitting to the one thing he's never told anyone about the bombing. "And I know that even though I'm not the one who pulled the trigger, I'm still the one responsible."


	27. Chapter 27

"Why would you be responsible?" Tony asks, and it occurs to Sam for the first time that no one actually knows that he and Dean lived in Lebanon. The Winchesters are so well known for their traveling that no one even thought to consider that they might have had a home base.

"I live in Lebanon, Kansas," Sam admits, biting the inside of his cheek. "Or rather, I lived in Lebanon before the bombing. There's a bunker just outside of the town that used to belong to my grandfather. Dean and I found it about five years ago and moved in a little while later."

"So you were in Lebanon before the bombing," Bruce says, and Sam nods hesitantly. Expressions of worry appear on the faces of all four Avengers as they take in the information Sam never even thought to give them. In the end, Natasha is the one to voice what they're all surely thinking.

"That changes everything, you know." She says grimly. "That changes your entire case."

"Trust me, I'm well aware of that fact," Sam replies. "But it doesn't change things for the better. My entire defense right now is based on the idea that Dean and I were in the wrong place at the wrong time, which just isn't true. We didn't set the bomb, sure, but it was still our fault that it was there."

"Someone tried to kill you two." Clint guesses, but Sam is quick to shake his head—he still doesn't know why the bomb was planted, doesn't even definitively know who planted it, but he figures based on where he ended up in the aftermath of the bombing that killing him and Dean wasn't the primary objective.

"I don't think so," Sam says. "If they were trying to kill us, there would have been easier ways to go about it. I think they were probably trying to frame us." Sam pauses, thinking through what little he knows about the bombing. "Dean and I have made a lot of enemies over the years. Powerful enemies." He hesitates, carefully considering his next words. "Enemies who can pin a series of murders in St. Louis on the guy who tried to stop them. Enemies who can blow up a police station. Enemies who can convince an entire nation that the Winchester brothers are on a murder spree across the country. Enemies who can plant a bomb and blame it on us." The Avengers are silent, processing the information that Sam has just revealed. Sam knows they've read the dossiers on him and his brother—lovingly referred to as the Winchester files by the feds and prosecutors—and he knows that they recognize every incident he just referenced. He knows there will be more questions, questions he can't and won't answer, but right now, he doesn't care.

If he's honest with himself, Sam stopped caring long before Steve Rogers took a bullet for him.

"We understand, Sam. Understand what you're feeling, and understand that this wasn't your fault." Bruce says patiently. And he isn't wrong. All of the Avengers carry some kind of guilt, may not be able to empathize with Sam's plight but can at least sympathize. But Sam is far too angry at the world—and at himself—to admit it.

"You don't understand, not really." Sam protests darkly. "None of you have any idea what I've been through, not in the past year but in the past thirty. My  _entire_  life, I've been pulled around like a marionette on a string, manipulated into doing things you couldn't even imagine. I've been tricked into killing people, into destroying lives." Sam pauses to take a breath, yellow eyes glowing. "Do you know how it feels to watch your own hands kill a friend and know there's nothing you could do to stop it?"

"I do," Clint says hesitantly, taking a small step forward. "I know how it feels to have someone else behind the controls, programming my every move. Destroying the people I love." Sam nods stiffly, acknowledging that Clint isn't wrong—he's aware of the events that unfolded six years ago at this very tower. He remembers watching the news and learning along with the rest of the world that aliens are very real and very dangerous. He remembers the SHIELD files leaked a few years later that revealed Clint's role in that attack, announced that he was put under mind control and forced to kill his fellow agents.

"I killed a boy I swore to protect," Sam says, images of Kevin Tran swimming through his mind. "When I killed him someone else was behind the wheel, but when I tore him from his family and from his life and I ruined him, I was the one in control. I'm the one who led him to his death." Sam clenches his fists, digging his fingernails into the faint scar on his palm—an old habit that has yet to completely die out. "I've lost everyone I've ever cared about, everyone who has ever made the mistake of caring about me. Anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt or dead." Sam is rambling now, the words spilling loose like a wave of emotion held back far too long by a dam that couldn't hold its weight. The barrier in Sam's mind has been cracking for years, but today it's finally broken. Sam has finally broken.

"That isn't true, Sam," Bruce says softly and Sam laughs brokenly, darkly, heartlessly.

"I went to college and fell in love, and she was killed in a fire," Sam says. "I went to New York and found a friend, and he was put into a coma trying to protect  _his_  friends that  _I_  put in danger. I went to prison to see my brother, and I got Captain America shot."

"You can't blame yourself for that, Sam," Clint argues. "Cap knew exactly what he was doing when he took that bullet."

"He shouldn't have been anywhere near it," Sam replies. "I should have taken SHIELD agents or police officers. Not him."

"Cap volunteered," Tony says, and Sam shakes his head.

"Because Matt convinced him because I asked," Sam says. "I'm the one who wanted Captain Rogers to come with me to the prison. I'm the one who got him to volunteer in the first place."

"Why?" Natasha asks, and Sam manages a weak smile.

"Because I knew what it would mean to Dean," Sam says quietly. "My life may have sucked, but Dean's has always been worse. I'm standing trial, but he's in prison. I was the kid who grew up protected, and he was the one doing the protecting. Dean watched his mother die when he was four years old. He learned too young that there are monsters out there, monsters that can and will kill you in an instant. Monsters that don't care if you lock your doors and carry a gun." Sam hesitates, the yellow in his vision fading ever so slightly. "When I was a kid, my big brother was my hero. To me, he was invincible. He knew better than me. He knew he wasn't invincible. But he knew someone who was."

Sam smiles a little bit, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a faded Captain America trading card—it's Dean's favorite, the same one Sam took to the prison to show his brother. In all the chaos that followed, Sam never changed clothes, and the card has been in his pocket ever since. Natasha cranes her neck to take a closer look and Sam finally drops his other hand, freeing her from his paralyzing hold. She smiles a little bit as she steps forward and examines the car. Feeling a bit braver, Tony, Clint, and Bruce step closer to see what it is that Sam is holding.

"I've seen this one before," Clint comments upon seeing the card in Sam's hand. "It's rare."

"I know," Sam says. "I'm the one who bought it." He turns the card around, looking it over carefully. He doesn't look at the image of Captain America swinging his shield, though. He looks at the crease halfway down from when it was shut in the Impala's door, and the little tear in the top left corner from the rough material of Dean's canvas bag, and the speck of dead man's blood on the Captain's right shoe. To Dean, his cards were a reminder of the hero who was stronger than the monsters. To Sam, they're memories of his childhood with stories written across them, a scrapbook of scars that tell the story of Sam and Dean's life.

There was more than one reason for Sam asking Jody to retrieve his brother's collection.

"When we were growing up, Dean loved Captain America," Sam says. "This was a real man who was super strong, super agile, superhuman. Dean thought that if anyone could survive against the monsters he fought every day, it would be Captain America. Dean idolized him for years. He hated history but he loved learning about the Second World War, about America's hero. He let himself care about this man because this was someone who would survive, no matter what you threw at him. Someone Dean didn't have to worry about getting killed by the monsters he dealt with every day." Sam hesitates, slipping the card carefully back into his pocket. "When I first met Captain Rogers, when Matt and I were invited to dinner, I froze."

"We figured you were starstruck." Natasha comments. "It happens a lot with him."

"I mean, I was, to an extent," Sam admits. "I was meeting my brother's lifelong hero. But I was also struck by this sudden realization that made me stop in my tracks." Sam bites the inside of his cheek, uncomfortable with the level of openness he's fallen into but deciding to continue forward. "I realized, standing there and looking at my brother's hero, that Captain America was one of Dean's childhood idols, but Dean was probably one of Captain America's least favorite people." Tony opens his mouth to protest but Sam holds up a palm, freezing the genius in place before he can get a word out. "Dean is a convicted mass murderer serving a life sentence in federal prison. Captain America is a superhero who values the lives of the innocent above all else. At the time, none of you knew that Dean wasn't responsible for the Lebanon bombing. You thought he was guilty of that, and of the serial murders in St. Louis, and of the murder spree in 2012. He was the epitome of what Captain America is against."

"Cap wouldn't have agreed to go with you if he didn't want to see your brother," Clint says.

"That was later. When he knew the truth." Sam replies. "I'm not saying I blame him. I would hate the Dean you thought you knew, too. Anyone would."

"Maybe we can get him a retrial," Natasha suggests.

"Matt's already working on it," Sam says. "But appeals take time. A lot of time. And Dean is only serving time for Lebanon. He's been accused of so much more than that. By the time we appeal all of the charges, he'll have been in jail for years, maybe even decades."

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't try," Tony says, and Sam shakes his head.

"I know that, but I mean... what's the point, you know?" He asks. "Matt can't appeal Dean's case until mine is over. And if I lose, he'll have to appeal mine first. Dean and I will probably spend the rest of our lives in prison just waiting for appeal after appeal, trial after trial." Sam shakes his head, turning away from the Avengers. "Our lives are over. Sometimes, living here with you, I can forget that. But my trial is coming to an end in the next month or so. And I'm going to lose. I'm going to be sentenced. And maybe, if I'm fortunate, I'll die in a cell instead of in a chair." Sam heads for the elevator without looking back, and none of the Avengers try to stop him. JARVIS doesn't ask where Sam wants to go and Sam doesn't say, allowing the AI to take him to his room without a word.

Sam sits down hard on his bed as he thinks about what he said to the Avengers, and in particular his parting words. He wasn't lying about the moments he has, living in Avengers Tower, where he forgets that he's on trial. Where he's human again, spending time with people he considers friends, not worrying about the things he's worried about his entire life. But when he's alone like this, lost in his own mind, he remembers.

There's a light at the end of Sam's tunnel. But he knows better than anyone that it isn't Heaven that's waiting for him.

Sam's story has always ended with hellfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am far from an artist, which means I would never be able to draw you a picture of what Sam looks like as Darkside. Luckily, the brilliant [xube](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xube/pseuds/xube) made some incredible art of Darkside that I just had to share!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is near and dear to my heart, and while it's a complete coincidence that it falls where it does in my upload schedule, I'm very glad it did. The following chapter is one of my favorites in the series, one that I've been writing and rewriting endlessly since long before I finished Escaping the Dark Side, and this chapter is the basis upon which Judgement Day was written.
> 
> To everyone who reads this story and this series, I want to wish you a Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, or Happy Holidays to anyone who celebrates another holiday or none at all.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it, and thank you so much for your support!
> 
> Emily

On Sam's first night back at the Tower, his nightmares are different.

For the first time in months, he doesn't see the red-walled room, Lebanon, or even the shooting at the prison or the vision of the park. Instead, Sam suffers from the nightmares of before, the dreams he had in the years before the Lebanon bombing. The dreams of Hell.

Sam never told Dean how long his nightmares lasted each night, partially out of fear and partially because he suspected that Dean already knew. Time in Hell passes slowly, compared to the surface, and it stands to reason that memories would do the same.

By the time Sam pulls himself free of the nightmares, it often feels like months have gone by.

The Hell nightmares shake Sam to his core in a way that not even his memories of the red-walled room can. The four months he spent with the demons pale in comparison to the two centuries Sam spent in Hell, and thanks to the lack of scientific laws, the torture was so much worse in the Cage than it could ever be on the surface.

Meat hooks and chains invade Sam's vision as an unforgettable laugh echoes in his mind, and he clamps his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut until the sound fades. Sam knows that he won't be able to sleep again tonight, probably not even tomorrow. The memories of Hell follow him like a shadow, and after each nightmare, it takes hours if not days before they begin to fade.

With a sigh, Sam swings his leg over the side of the bed, grabbing the crutch leaning against the wall rather than putting on his prosthetic. If he's not going to be doing any sleeping, he might as well distract himself.

* * *

The last thing Sam expects to see on the roof at this hour—it's 3:17 am, JARVIS informs him on the way up—is another human being, but when he steps out of the elevator, that's precisely what he finds. There's a figure sitting on the platform that Stark lands on when he's feeling dramatic, his legs dangling over the edge. The light of the city reflects off of the figure's metal arm as Sam approaches, and he hesitates. Captain Rogers is Bucky's best friend, and Sam got Rogers shot. Sam wouldn't be surprised if Bucky decided to toss him off of the platform.

"Hey," Sam says quietly—he's not going back to bed, and Bucky doesn't look like he's planning to either, so Sam might as well try his luck—as he continues his approach. Bucky doesn't look up, but he does shift slightly, patting the ground beside him.

"Couldn't sleep?" Bucky asks once Sam is seated and his crutch is set down behind the pair. Bucky doesn't move his eyes from the horizon, and after a minute Sam follows his gaze, looking out over Manhattan.

"Nightmare," Sam says softly, voice cracking slightly. Bucky does look up at this, his expression one of concern as his eyes meet Sam's.

"Lebanon?" He asks curiously, and Sam shakes his head.

"Something else." He says. "Before that." Sam shakes his head again, trying to dislodge the memories that cling to him like burrs. "You?"

"It's been a while since I started getting my memories back, but they're still coming," Bucky explains. "70 years is a lot of memories, and none of them are happy."

"I know the feeling," Sam says. "I spent most of the last year remembering the bombing and what happened afterward, all in bits and pieces. I still don't remember everything."

"But tonight was something different? Not memories?" Bucky asks. Sam shrugs, turning back toward the skyline.

"Still memories, just older ones," Sam admits. "I think I might just have you beat on the number of years, though."

"How?" Bucky questions. "Last time we spoke like this, you said you were born in '83."

"I was," Sam says. "But a few years ago I found myself sort of... out of the timeline, I guess. I spent 180 years in a place where time doesn't work the same way. It was a year and a half up here."

"Damn, that's tough, kid," Bucky says sympathetically—Sam figures it says something about the soldier's personal experiences that he doesn't even question Sam's explanation. "I'm guessing it wasn't a good year." Sam shakes his head, laughing half-heartedly.

"I haven't exactly had many good years." He says.

"Yeah, I get that," Bucky says. "Wilson says I've probably got PTSD. Says it's common in soldiers, that I probably would have gotten it after the war anyway, with all the shit I saw with Steve. I didn't even know what that was, had to get him to describe it. No such thing where I'm from. When I'm from." The correction is subtle, but Sam notices anyway, notices the way Bucky frowns. Unlike Rogers, Bucky actually lived through his seventy years of displacement. Had memories from them, whether or not they were actually  _his_. But that doesn't mean he feels any less out of place in what must be a terrifyingly confusing future.

"I'm not surprised," Sam says. "I've probably got it too, and I've never even been to war. It's just what happens when your mind gets trapped in your past."

"Yeah, sounds about right," Bucky says. "Steve was always better at getting out of his head than me."

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbles awkwardly. Bucky raises an eyebrow and Sam's face heats up as he hastens to elaborate. "For getting him shot."

"Kid, you didn't do a thing," Bucky says. "Steve knew what he was doing when he stepped in front of that bullet. It ain't your fault, and it ain't his either. That's just who Steve is. Even before the serum, he was just the little guy who protected the other little guys." Bucky lifts his metal arm, turning it and watching as the light reflects off of it into the distance. "I've never deserved Steve. He's too good for me, too good for all of us. He's the kind of pure that you just don't see."

"Yeah." Sam agrees. "People like that are rare."

"Well, they ain't that rare if there are two of 'em right here in this tower," Bucky corrects, smiling softly.

"Who, Tony? Bruce?" Sam asks, confused.

"You, kid," Bucky says with a laugh. "You've probably got the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met. Even Steve can't hold a candle to you."

"No, I... I'm not a good person. I'm not pure." Sam protests weakly.

"Maybe not, but then again, who is?" Bucky asks. "Steve may be a good guy, but he's also an idiot. He almost threw his whole life away for me, and I ain't worth it. He's made his fair share of stupid decisions." Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Bucky raises his metal hand, shaking his head. "Don't you say you've made mistakes too, kid. I know you have. But the difference is, you made them for someone else. Steve and me and Stark and everyone else in this tower, in this world, we all make our mistakes for ourselves. We're too focused on what  _we_  want. But your mistakes, I'm betting your mistakes are always for somebody else. I'm betting you're trying to do the right thing, you're putting yourself out there to help others, you're trying to help the little guy all the time, every day. And I think that's why Thor came down here and gave you his hammer and I think that's why you were able to pick it up."

"That was just... a fluke. It had to be." Sam argues. "I'm not worthy."

"I think you are, kid," Bucky says. "I think you're more worthy than all of us."

"Have you ever tried?" Sam asks curiously. "To lift his hammer, I mean." Bucky shakes his head, his smile faltering.

"Can't say I've ever gotten the chance if I'm honest." He admits. "But I don't think I need to bother. If Steve can't do it, there's no way I can."

"I think next time Thor stops by, you should try," Sam says. "You might just surprise yourself."

"Myself and everyone else," Bucky says skeptically, although his smile looks a little more genuine now. "Maybe I will, kid. Maybe I will."

The conversation fades away as both men look out over the city, contemplating their places in a world that doesn't want to accept them for who they are. Sam turns Bucky's words over in his mind, thinking hard.

He's never seen himself as selfless. Sure he's dedicated his life to helping others, but so what? So have Rogers and Natasha and every agent in SHIELD and every doctor at every hospital and every firefighter and police officer. And none of them can lift Thor's hammer. So what sets Sam apart from the millions of people in this world who are so much better than him? Is Bucky crazy to think that Sam is unique, or is Sam's opinion of himself so low that he can't see his own worth?

As with many of the questions Sam has found himself asking in the past year, he isn't sure he wants to know the answer.

But Sam's analysis turns up another point of interest, one he's noticed a few times in the past few weeks but never really thought about in detail: Bucky's apparent nickname for him. Sam has had a few nicknames in the past—Moose, Sasquatch, and of course, Sammy—but usually only from Dean or another close friend, with Crowley being the obvious exception. Bucky doesn't seem like the type to use nicknames, and Sam has noticed that for the most part, he calls all of the Avengers by their last names, other than Captain Rogers. There's no reason for Bucky to call Sam anything other than 'Winchester'—although considering the negative connotation that name has developed, Sam is pretty thankful he isn't—and even if Bucky decided not to use Sam's last name, he could still easily use his first. So why give a nickname to Sam? And why 'kid'? Sam has nothing against the nickname—it's not like Dean has never called him a kid before—but there's something strange about a term like that coming from a quiet, damaged man like Bucky Barnes.

After a moment's hesitation, Sam decides to indulge his curiosity.

"Hey, Bucky." He says awkwardly, and the metal-armed man turns away from the city, meeting Sam's eyes.

"Yeah, kid?" Bucky asks, and Sam bites the inside of his cheek.

"Why do you call me that?" He asks before he can change his mind. "Kid, I mean. Like, technically, I'm older than you, since I'm 35 and you're like 29."

"First of all, I'm 101," Bucky says with a grin. "Secondly, our ages don't matter. That ain't the point."

"Well, why?" Sam asks curiously.

"Honestly?" Bucky hesitates then looks away, turning his eyes back to the city. "When Stark first brought you back to the tower from the station, you reminded me a lot of Steve." Sam wants to ask why, wants to know how anyone could ever begin to compare him to  _Captain America_ , but he holds his tongue. He can tell how hard this is for Bucky. How hard it is to talk about the friend he just got back only to almost lose again. "You were this big guy, even in that chair, would have probably been towering over all of us, even Steve—" Bucky pauses, smiling softly at Sam "—and you do tower over all of us now that you're back on your feet—but then, you looked so fragile then. Like everything was stacked against you, like you didn't have a single friend in the world. And then you looked up, and I saw this... steel. In your eyes." Bucky pauses, and Sam watches as he clasps his hands together, the metal machine, the silver weapon, wrapping softly around his other hand in a way Sam knows it was never designed to. Bucky's arm was never intended for a man with a heart, yet here he is, pouring that heart out in front of Sam. "And I remembered the fall." Bucky shivers involuntarily, and Sam knows that he must be talking about the train. Sam has been to the Captain America museum, seen the Bucky Barnes exhibit. He knows as well as anyone how Steve Rogers was supposedly the last thing Bucky saw.

But he may be one of the only people in the world who gets to hear the story firsthand.

"I was looking at him when I fell. I remember that clearly." Bucky says. "I remember watching him collapse in on himself, the same way you looked. Like there wasn't anyone in the world on his side anymore. But his eyes, they were still bright. They still held that determination he had held his entire life, from the day I met him. Even when he was being beaten up in a back alley or fighting some disease or another, even when he was losing friends left and right in the field and running around in a new body with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he still held on to that. He never lost that steel in his eyes." Bucky turns to Sam, smiling weakly. "You're a lot like Steve, I think. You're both willing to risk your lives for a stranger. I used to have to protect him from the world, and now he's the one protecting me. He's always joked that I need someone to protect. Someone to look after. That it's who I am. I guess I've been looking for that someone since I got here. And I think that when Stark brought you to the tower and you looked just as beat down as Steve did way back when I figured that maybe you needed some looking after. Steve used to be my kid. Now that's you." Bucky turns back away, and in the faint light of the city, Sam can just make out the blush spreading across his face.

"Dean always said I attracted mother hens," Sam admits. "When I found out he had been arrested, I was scared because I realized I had never truly been alone before. I always had him protecting me. I came to the tower looking for protection, and you came looking for someone to protect. I guess we kinda needed each other, huh."

"I think you're right, kid," Bucky says with a smile. "We were both looking for someone to help us out, to fill some role. Maybe we were meant to find each other, maybe we weren't. Who knows. At the end of the day, I think we're just a couple of guys with too many bad memories." Sam nods in agreement, looking out over the city. Before Lebanon, before the demons, Sam would have never admitted that he needed someone around him, someone to look after him. But things are different now.  _Sam_  is different. He's broken, badly damaged, maybe beyond repair. He isn't capable of surviving on his own, not with his mind as splintered as it is. Without Matt, he would never have survived the Demon. Without the Avengers, he'll surely die at the hands of the Judge.

Sam will always need protection. And Bucky will always need someone to protect. It sounds familiar.

Bucky sees Rogers and Sam as kindred spirits. Sam feels the same way about Bucky and Dean.

"I should probably head inside," Sam says awkwardly, sensing that he's overstayed his welcome. The tower is Bucky's home, after all, and Sam is only a guest. Sam grabs his crutch and tries to push himself up, somewhat regretting his decision to leave his prosthetic behind. After a minute, Bucky stands, offering Sam a hand. Once Sam is on his feet, Bucky smiles.

"You know, I don't know a lot about you, but I'm pretty sure I can relate more than anyone else in this tower." As he speaks, Bucky turns, his eyes back on the city. It's obvious to Sam that in the same way that Bruce reads to distract himself from his insecurities and Natasha spars to let out anger, Bucky uses the city to channel his fear. "If you ever need to talk about, well, about pretty much anything, don't be afraid to ask." Sam smiles, heading for the door. "And if you can't sleep, you know where to find me, kid," Bucky adds as Sam pushes the door open.

Sam turns around then and takes in the scene. The skyline of Manhattan is alive, blinking lights shining as far as the eye can see. Sam knows the lights are windows of skyscrapers and office buildings, portals into cubicles filled with hardworking people, but from here, they kind of look like stars.

And in the center of it all stands a shadowed figure, one arm shining just as brightly as the lights that surround him.


	29. Chapter 29

It takes another two days for Captain Rogers to recover enough to be released from the medical floor and back to his apartment with strict instructions not to do anything strenuous for at least another week or so—instructions Bucky seems convinced that his friend is going to ignore. The metal-armed assassin has spent the past two days roping the rest of the Avengers into his plan to keep Rogers safe, the parental instincts he showed to Sam on the rooftop bleeding out into every room of the tower as he badgers Tony into restricting Rogers's access to the gym and Natasha into agreeing to keep an eye on the injured soldier. Sam has watched the whole ordeal go down with no small amount of amusement, explaining offhandedly to Clint when the curious archer asks why he finds the situation so funny that it reminds him much of Dean's overreactions the last time Sam managed to catch the flu.

Needless to say, Sam isn't expecting Rogers to leave Bucky's sight for at least a few days. So when the time comes for Rogers to be released from the infirmary, the last place Sam expects to find him is in the kitchen, alone and without his closest and oldest friend.

Sam is eating breakfast—scrambled eggs and bacon courtesy of Clint, who cooked an obscene amount of food in response to Natasha claiming he couldn't cook anything at all—when Captain Rogers enters the room through the private back hallway, glancing around the room before seeing Sam and heading right for him. Sam sets down his fork and waits expectantly for the soldier to either start yelling or just outright deck him, but instead, Rogers stops a few feet away and awkwardly rubs the back of his neck with the hand that isn't being held across his chest by a navy blue sling.

"Sam, I... I wanted to apologize." Rogers says to Sam's utter disbelief, sitting down across the table from Sam and leaning forward with an earnest and moderately guilty expression on his face. "For not being able to vouch for you outside the prison. You took a pretty severe beating that night, and I could have prevented it."

"You could have..." Sam trails off, shaking his head in amazement. "You were  _shot_  in the  _chest_. You took a  _bullet_  that was meant for  _me_. I should be the one apologizing, not you." Rogers opens his mouth to protest, but Sam holds up a hand, shaking his head again. "I should be thanking you, too. For coming with me to see Dean, and for saving my life. I owe you everything." Now it's Rogers's turn to shake his head,  a ghost of a smile on his face.

"You don't owe me anything." He insists. "I did what you would have done if our positions were reversed. And besides, jumping in front of bullets to protect innocent people is quite literally in my job description." The implication that Rogers believes in Sam's innocence is startling—Sam thought that if anyone were to still believe him guilty,  it would be Captain Rogers—but Sam doesn't have time to reply before a shrill alarm sounds, drawing both men's eyes to the ceiling. "JARVIS, what's going on?" Rogers asks worriedly, jumping to his feet at the same time that Sam does, his eyes flashing yellow in an instinctive reaction to the unexpected sound.

"There has been a shooting," JARVIS informs the pair flatly.

"Where? We can help." Rogers says immediately, striding across the room and stepping into the elevator before Sam has the chance to remind him that he's not supposed to be doing much of anything but resting right now. Shaking his head, Sam teleports into the elevator just before the doors close, and a small grin finds its way to his face when Rogers jumps,  having apparently forgotten about that particular ability of Sam's.

"In the lobby of Avengers Tower," JARVIS says, sending the elevator down without prompting. Sam and Rogers exchange a look that conveys more than they could ever say about the situation. Any shooting in the general vicinity of the tower is bad enough, but inside the lobby?

Both men are out of the elevator as soon as the doors have opened, Sam's eyes back to their usual dull hazel and Rogers's sling abandoned on the floor of the elevator. The two find the majority of the lobby's occupants corralled to one side by security, other than Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff, who are standing over a body close to the main doors.

"Who is it? What happened?" Rogers asks as he and Sam walk over to the pair of Avengers, the former determined and the latter hesitant. Sam is all too aware of the eyes that follow him across the room, and he knows that his presence here is going to raise questions.

"Jury is still out on both questions," Tony says distractedly, searching through what appears to be security footage on his StarkPhone while Natasha scans the room, her eyebrows furrowed.

"NYPD is on their way, but Stark's security did an initial sweep and didn't find anything useful." She says, nodding to the body lying behind her and sidestepping out of the way of Rogers and Sam. As soon as he sees the face of the victim of the shooting, Sam's heart stops in his chest. He takes a few steps back automatically, drawing the eyes of the three Avengers to him.

"Sam?" What's wrong?" Rogers asks in concern, and Sam shakes his head, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek.

"That's the Judge," Sam says, staring down at the face of the man who attacked him in the police precinct so long ago and who shot Captain Rogers only a few days ago. While Sam was the sole witness in both of those cases, he still finds the fact that he's the only one who recognized the Judge worrying. "That's the Judge," Sam repeats after a moment, turning his attention to Natasha—Tony has stepped away to argue with someone on his phone. "You didn't recognize him? From when he came to Avengers Tower a few days ago?"

"We never saw his face," Natasha says with a frown, looking down at the body. Her eyes sweep over it with an analytical gaze, and after a minute Natasha shakes her head. "He was wearing a mask when he introduced himself as the Judge, but he didn't... look like this." Natasha appears puzzled by this fact, her forehead creased with confusion and a touch of worry. "The man who issued the warning to us was shorter than this man. And we can't check the security footage of that night because it was corrupted."

"Well, our mystery guest of a few days ago might be the same culprit here as well," Tony says with irritation in his tone as he shoves his phone aggressively into his pocket. "The footage has been corrupted again." He looks around the room, eyes skipping over the body in favor of the businessmen and women at the opposite end of the lobby. "There's no recording of the shooting, no eyewitness account, nothing but a body to prove that a shooting even happened." There's another pause as Tony's gaze finally lands on the Judge's body, and he shakes his head. "A wanted vigilante was shot and killed in the middle of the lobby of the safest building in Manhattan, and there isn't a single clue as to who did it."

"Who could pull off something like that?" Rogers wonders aloud.

"A better question is who  _would_?" Natasha corrects. "Assuming that the man lying here right now is the real Judge, why would someone else break into the tower claiming to be him? And why kill him? The heroes and law enforcement of New York don't like the Judge, but a lot of the public does." Natasha nods to the crowd of civilians. "The Judge is killing bad people who didn't get sentences they deserved. Anyone who kills him must know that by doing so, they're bringing themselves to the same level that he was already on."

"Killing people you perceive as villains makes you no better than a villain yourself," Tony says, nodding solemnly. "I wish this was a good thing, that the Judge is dead. It should mean that his reign is over." Tony hesitates, rubbing his left shoulder subconsciously. " But honestly, I don't think that it does."

"You aren't the only one," Rogers replies grimly. "The Judge may be dead, but there's someone else out there,  someone else who has already proven that they have the skills necessary to break into Avengers Tower and wipe all proof of his doing so from Stark's servers.

"And we already know who his target is," Sam speaks up, biting the inside of his cheek. "This new Judge already told you exactly what he wants, and that's me."

"How do we know he's new?" Tony questions, brushing aside Sam's comment on the new Judge's target. "The man lying here is certainly Sam's Judge. He matches Sam's descriptions to a tee, and he matches the descriptions of the few witnesses to the Judge's other crimes, but there were murders with no witnesses. Murders that the Judge claimed as his own. And of course, our mystery man is calling himself the Judge, too."

"You think there are two of them?" Natasha asks skeptically. "Two Judges?" Tony nods, pulling his phone back out and making a couple of notes.

"The question is if two different Judges are working in Manhattan, why did one kill the other?" Rogers wonders. "Were they adversaries, and one finally got the upper hand?"

"Or were they working together until one got sick of splitting the prize?" Sam finishes Rogers's thought, glancing again at the crowd of witnesses and the growing crowd outside the doors. "Regardless, I'm going to have to tell Matt and Foggy what happened. I sincerely doubt that the Judge dying in the lobby of Avengers Tower three days after I get back is going to look good for me." The three Avengers nod, returning their attention to the task at hand as Sam heads for the elevator. Just as the doors close,  Sam spots the NYPD officers who have finally arrived on the scene.

The Judge is dead. Shot in the chest in the most heavily-monitored building in Manhattan without a single witness. Likely killed by the same person who broke into Avengers Tower to threaten the Avengers. Knowing what he does now, Sam has to admit that it's possible that the Judge who attacked Sam and shot Rogers never knew the truth about Sam's double life—never knew that Sam Winchester and Darkside were the same person. But this new Judge, whoever they may be, has already proven themselves to both know the truth and be willing to share it.

And while the original Judge fled the scene when opposition arrived, the new one sought the Avengers out directly. Whoever killed the Judge is dangerous, extremely so. More dangerous than the original.

What makes the situation worse, Sam reasons as he steps out of the elevator on his floor and pulls out his phone, is that unlike the man lying in the lobby, this new Judge didn't put his target on Sam Winchester's back.

He put it on Darkside's.


	30. Chapter 30

Following the Judge's death, Avengers Tower goes into lockdown. No one, including Tony and Pepper, leaves for three days while the NYPD and Tony's security team interview every single person who was in the lobby at the time of the shooting in hopes of finding the killer. Descriptions are given and sketches are done, but by the time the police leave, all anyone knows is that the killer was white, tall but not as tall as the Judge, and wearing a scarf, gloves, and a hoodie with the hood up and possibly some kind of beanie or cap underneath. With his face and hair hidden and no chance of fingerprints, the NYPD is forced to move on to other things and the case is all but abandoned. The papers run stories for a couple of days that the Judge is dead, formally identifying him as Damien Lawson, a 39-year-old ex-Marine whose 17-year-old sister was killed ten years before by a gang member who got out of a murder charge due to a technicality—but before long, they too move on to other things.

Damien Lawson was the man who attacked Sam and shot Rogers, there's no doubt about that. But Sam is far from convinced that this is over, and the Avengers are just as hesitant.

It's for that reason that when Darkside takes to the streets three days after the Judge's death, he's got no less than five Avengers trailing him—Natasha, Clint, Tony, Sam Wilson, and Captain Rogers, who was cleared for the field just that morning. The Avengers are overly cautious, worried that the Judge's killer will make another move for Sam—and that this time, there won't be a way for anyone else to act as a human shield. Sam's babysitters have become almost unbearable, but he's dealing with them—he knows the display of helicopter parenting means that the Avengers really do care about what happens to him. It's taken months and a couple of close calls, but Sam has finally gained the trust of the world's mightiest heroes.

When Sam puts on his mask and heads out with half of the Avengers on his tail, the last thing he expects—and the last thing he needs—is to stumble upon a hunt.

And to his chagrin, it isn't a ghost or a werewolf or even a demon that he finds in the middle of Manhattan but a massive vampire nest with fifteen of the bloodsuckers inside, their souls glowing faintly—Sam hasn't entirely figured out the different levels of light given off by different souls, but vampires fall somewhere between demons, who barely glow at all, and werewolves, who are about half as bright as humans. Sam seriously considers leaving the nest be for the time being—he has no access to a machete, after all, so he can't do much to begin with—and returning on his own without the Avengers. But as he crouches on the next roof over, trying to decide if he should intervene, he sees three human men walk up to the back door of the nest and sneak carefully inside, long weapons that can only be machetes in their hands.

Sam can't tell how it happens—the eighteen souls in the building are hard to distinguish when they're all moving—but he picks up a pair of screams and several loud, excited laughs and knows that the hunt in progress just took a turn for the worst. Sam's eyes narrow, glowing brightly as he tries to identify the locations of the three humans. Unfortunately, two are being held by the duller vampires, while only one is still standing, facing the eleven surviving members of the nest—and unaware of the twelfth, who is sneaking up behind him.

Without a moment's hesitation, Sam jumps from his rooftop, landing on the top of the nest with a thump and a crack. Sam grimaces, readying himself as the old roof of the building—they're in the warehouse district, so it's probably an old decommissioned factory or something—gives way, sending Sam crashing through into the middle of the action. He manages to land on his feet and grins, swiping a discarded machete from the ground and throwing it at the vampire trying to sneak up on the third hunter.

Everyone in the room, hunter or vampire, turns to watch as the body slumps to the floor, neatly decapitated.

"We have a problem here?" Sam asks, looking around with his yellow eyes shining. The vampires are frozen, clearly shocked by Sam's sudden and somewhat dramatic arrival, but rather than joining them the hunters use the distraction to their advantage. The two who are being held free themselves quickly while the third attacks, chopping off two heads in one long motion. Sam holds out his hand and the machete he threw flies into it, and he tosses the weapon to one of the two injured hunters as the other picks his own up off of the floor of the building. The two young men swing together, decapitating their captors simultaneously. As the bodies slump to the ground, the rest of the vampires jump into action, and one of the hunters tosses his machete to Sam, who swings it in a wide arc, killing three vampires who mistakenly decide he's the best target. Against the three hunters and Sam, the final four vampires don't stand a chance—within minutes the room is filled with fifteen bodies, all missing their heads. The three hunters sheath their machetes and head for the door and Sam follows, casting one last glance at the room as his stomach churns.

Sam knows better than anyone that vampires are killers, knows that they can't be imprisoned and can rarely be cured. But now that the hunters are safe and the rush of adrenaline has worn off, Sam is forced to realize that it's been over eight months since he last killed anything or anyone. Over eight months since the werewolf in New Jersey. And sure, Sam has done hunts since then or at least assisted in them, but he hasn't killed directly since that werewolf, mostly exorcizing demons and salting and burning ghosts.

When they reach the street outside of the warehouse, the three hunters stop, conversing quietly about something. Sam resists the urge to listen in on their conversation, fixing his mask instead and leaning patiently against the doorway of the warehouse. After a minute, the hunters turn together, wary smiles set on all of their faces.

"We've heard a lot about you, Darkside." The oldest of the three hunters says. "The name's Roberts, Bill Roberts. This here is Chip—" He gestures to the hunter on his left "—and Matt. Brothers, last name Trenton." Chip and Matt appear to be twins or at least very close in age, and their expressions of relief are strikingly similar, as are the hand-shaped bruises around their wrists. The two hunters are probably relatively new to the business, but Roberts is a veteran, one Sam recalls meeting in the past. Sam wouldn't be surprised to discover that the trio had a relationship similar to him, Dean, and Bobby.

"It's nice to meet you all," Sam says, voice low and hopefully unrecognizeable—he really needs to get himself some kind of voice modifier if he's going to keep running into people from his past.

"Rumor is someone's been taking care of hunts in Manhattan," Matt says. "That you?"

"I do take care of things when I get the chance," Sam admits. "Been a bit busy lately, didn't even know about this nest."

"Well it's a good thing you came when you did, or we'd all be vampire food right about now." Roberts says gruffly.

"Been busy, huh?" Chip asks, expression growing thoughtful. "Chasing down the Judge, I reckon. I hear the guy shot down Captain America the other day."

"Yes, he was my priority," Sam says hesitantly. Chip is obviously putting the pieces together. Sam just hopes he doesn't find the need to share. "Now I'm trying to find the man who killed him."

"Well, of course, I hate that someone was killed, but I have to say I'm glad that man is dead. Safer for the good Captain and for Sam Winchester." Roberts says, continuing on before Sam has time to say a word. "It's funny, you know? We all thought that kid was dead after that bombing in Kansas, but I'll be damned if anything can keep those Winchester boys down. If you're protecting that kid, good on you. He's one of us, one of the best of us."

"I don't want anyone to get hurt, Sam Winchester included," Sam says, biting the inside of his cheek. He knows that the Avengers are somewhere nearby, knows that they're probably listening to this conversation right now. All of his trying to keep them in the dark about the supernatural and now he has no choice but to explain everything.

And yet, looking at the three men standing before him, living and laughing, Sam doesn't regret his decision to help for an instant.

"See, I told y'all Darkside was a hunter," Roberts says. "No one believed me, of course, but I said it."

"He's not just a hunter." Chip realizes, eyes widening, and Sam braces himself. "He's  _the_  hunter."

"Excuse me?" Sam asks cautiously. He knows that he should just leave now, but he can't risk Chip exposing his identity to the hunting world rather than only to his brother and mentor.

"You aren't protecting Sam Winchester, you're protecting yourself," Chip says. "You _are_  Sam Winchester." Sam glances at Matt and Roberts, gauging their reactions to that revelation. Neither hunter looks like they want to shoot Sam between the eyes, which he takes as a good sign. Roberts looks surprised, which Sam was expecting, but Matt looks like he's meeting Captain America. Sighing, Sam allows his sight to fade to normal and pulls down his mask.

He's going to have hell to pay when he meets back up with the Avengers.

"You guys did an excellent job with those vampires." Sam says in a poor attempt to deflect attention from himself. "A nest of fifteen isn't an easy hunt for five, much less three."

"Sam Winchester in the flesh," Roberts says, punctuating his words with a low whistle. "There are some hunters out there who would love to know you're doing alright, you know."

"I'm aware, but I'm trying to avoid the spotlight at the moment," Sam admits. "Jody Mills and her girls are keeping tabs on me, I'll ask her to spread updates every once in a while."

"Ah, I know Jody," Roberts says with a smile, although the Trenton brothers look confused by the name. "Badass woman, that one. How is she?"

"At the moment, she's keeping her distance," Sam says. "We haven't really spoken much as of late. It's pretty dangerous for anyone to be seen around me at the moment, with the trial and the Judge and all."

"Ah, yeah, the trial of the century." Roberts says. "Jody's been spreading the word through the community. Sam Winchester is innocent. It was demons, was it? Pushed the button, destroyed the city, sent your brother to jail." Sam nods, biting the inside of his cheek, and Roberts smiles. "You're a good kid, Sam. I've been watching you grow since the beginning. I knew your daddy, long before all this happened. Knew your brother, too, while you were off at Stanford." That phrase tugs at a memory deep in Sam's mind and he smiles.

"I think Dean has told me about you," Sam says. "Rugaru?" Roberts laughs and nods, smiling wistfully.

"Ah yeah, he loves that story, doesn't he," Roberts says.

"I'm sorry, it's just... you're Sam Winchester. Like, _the_  Sam Winchester." Matt says, speaking up for the first time since his brother exposed Sam's identity.

"That I am," Sam says, somewhat confused. He's anything but a role model, although he's fully aware of the place he and his brother hold in hunter legend. "I'm nobody special. Just a hunter who happened to get a few special powers."

"That's ridiculous." Matt protests. "You... you're  _you_. You didn't even need powers to stop the  _apocalypse_. You and Dean are, like,  _legends_."

"I'm aware," Sam says uncomfortably. "It's one of the reasons I decided to start hunting again as Darkside, not as myself. I knew hunters would probably recognize me pretty quickly, and I couldn't let that happen.

"Makes sense." Chip says, nodding wisely. "We know, the monsters know. The monsters know, the world knows."

"I hate to end this conversation prematurely, but we need to head out," Roberts says regretfully. "Werewolf in Chicago, and the full moon's tomorrow. You understand." Sam nods, recalling numerous all-night drives to reach a wolf before the full moon ended. Sometimes, in later years, Dean would take a detour to an open field and the brothers would stop the car and look up at the stars.

Those long drives are one of the few things Sam truly misses about his old life.

"Of course," Sam says, shaking himself out of wistful memories. "Just... maybe leave out my involvement in this takedown?" Roberts, Chip, and Matt all nod, although the Trenton brothers look a little bit disappointed.

"You take care of yourself, Sam," Roberts says. "The hunting community is supporting you from the sidelines, you hear?" Sam nods, smiling gratefully.

"Take care." He says with a wave. Roberts returns Sam's smile and offers a two-fingered salute.

"You're a good kid, Sam. Never forget that."

The three hunters head down the street and Sam watches them until they turn into shadows. In the distance, he hears an old car rumble to a start, and he pulls up his mask, turning his vision yellow and leaning back against the wall of the warehouse. The car—a blue 60s model, Sam is pretty sure, one that would likely make Dean proud—drives past and Sam watches it go, counting souls and confirming that all three hunters are inside. Once the sound of the engine has faded, Sam looks up at the roof where he was standing when he first saw the vampires and waves at the five glowing souls hidden in its shadows.

"They're gone!" Sam shouts, and just as he predicted, the seemingly empty rooftop comes alive. Captain Rogers and Natasha are the first ones on the ground, followed by Clint, Wilson, and Tony, who lands on the street and turns to face the rest of his team.

"Sam," Natasha begins in a tone that is just a little bit too calm, "what the hell just happened?"


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, guys! The app I keep my drafts in refused to open, so I had to retype this chapter from my phone and it took a lot longer than anticipated. Regardless, I hope you enjoy!

"Remember all those questions you've all had about me, about my past, about my life?" Sam questions, pulling down his mask and smiling hesitantly at the Avengers standing in the street before him. The door to the warehouse is still open, and Clint peers inside then takes a couple of steps back in shock, nose wrinkling in disgust.

"Guys, there are fifteen decapitated bodies in here." The archer informs his team after taking a second, more extended look—presumably to count the bodies. The rest of the Avengers are quick to turn their attention to the warehouse, crowding around the doorway to peer inside and then staring at Sam, who leans back against the wall and crosses his arms.

"There's a reason that my life looks so weird on paper," Sam says simply after all of the Avengers have had time to see the carnage inside the warehouse. The heroes stare expectantly at Sam, and he tugs at the inside of his cheek with his teeth as he debates how to move forward. There's no way he's going to get out of giving the monster talk—there's no excuse Sam could give that would explain this situation away or make it any better. With a shake of his head, Sam turns to Clint—who is still standing in the doorway—and gestures to the open doorway. "Do me a favor and toss me one of the heads," Sam says. 

If he's going to have to give the world's mightiest heroes the monster talk, he might as well use a visual aid.

Clint hesitates, clearly reconsidering everything he knows about Sam—which, to be fair, isn't exactly a lot—but eventually the archer nods sharply and disappears into the warehouse, reappearing a few seconds later with one of the vampire heads in his hands, held under the ears as far away from Clint's body as physically possible. Sam decides to take pity on his friend—at least, he hopes they'll remain friends after this—and directs one palm at the head, lifting it out of Clint's hands and carrying it over to himself. Once the head is in Sam's hands, he looks it over, frowning deeply. It's a young woman with short black hair and an eyebrow piercing. She appears relatively young, maybe around twenty-five, but looks can be decieving—Sam finds himself wondering how long she's been wearing that youthful face around.

Shaking his head, Sam returns his attention to the Avengers.

"Alright." Sam begins awkwardly. "I was really hoping that none of this would ever come out, that I would be either acquitted or imprisoned before any of you learned any of this. But I couldn't let those three die, so I had to intervene." He pauses, swallowing hard and holding up the vampire head by its hair. "This right here is the head of a vampire."

"That's a human. A human woman." Captain Rogers's protest is immediate, the anger and confusion apparent in his voice. Sam fully understands that Rogers doesn't know the truth about the supernatural world—and therefore probably thinks that Sam just helped three people with machetes kill fifteen innocents in cold blood and then let them drive away—but that doesn't stop the pang in Sam's chest at Rogers's obvious disapproval.

"It isn't." Sam insists. "Vampires aren't human, not anymore. Look closely." Sam floats the vampire's head in the air with one hand and opens its mouth with the other. He waits until the Avengers have worked up the courage to step closer before he presses down on the vamp's upper gums. The dead vampire's signature sharp fangs slide down over its teeth and Clint, Tony, and Wilson all step back, eyes wide. "Vampires are very real and very different from the modern interpretation. They drink blood, but they aren't allergic to sunlight or garlic, or at least not nearly to the scale pop culture seems to think." Sam explains. "Also, a stake to the heart won't do much more than tickle." He adds after a moment. "The only way to kill a vamp is to decapitate them,  hence the machetes and the fifteen headless bodies."

"And you know all of this how, exactly?" Tony asks, his expression a mixture of confusion, worry, disgust, and curiosity.

"It's my job. It's my life." Sam admits. "After Captain Rogers was shot, I told several of you that he was a hero of Dean's because he couldn't be killed by the monsters Dean fought every day. I'm sure you assumed I was talking about monsters of either the human or psychological variety, but I wasn't. I meant it literally when I said the word 'monster.' My father raised Dean and me to be hunters. Monster hunters."

"Those three men, I'm assuming, were also hunters," Natasha says, and Sam nods.

"There are dozens, maybe hundreds of hunters all over the country, all over the world," Sam explains. "We dedicate our lives to hunting down and killing a variety of supernatural creatures and saving the people that they're terrorizing. My entire life I've been a hunter,  up until the Lebanon bombing." Sam hesitates. "And I've still been hunting since then, periodically. Not nearly as often as before,  of course, and only in the immediate area around New York City."

"How does someone become a hunter?" Sam Wilson questions. "It doesn't seem like the type of job where someone calls you in for an interview."

"There's no application process. Hunters are either born into the job, or they're forced into it." Sam says. "My mother was raised as a hunter, born into a family with a long history of hunting. She left the business, or at least,  she tried to." Sam shakes his head,  biting the inside of his cheek. "The think about being a hunter is that once you're in, you can't get out. I tried when I left my family and went to Stanford. My mom tried when she met my dad. But it followed both of us and took us back."

"What do you mean, that some hunters are forced into it?" Tony asks.

"Well, as I said, my mother left the business," Sam says. "She didn't tell her husband what she did,  didn't raise her sons the way she had been raised. Until the night she died, my father had no idea that the supernatural was anything but a collection of campfire stories. But then, when I was six months old, a monster broke into our house and killed my mother. And my father saw her body pinned to the ceiling, just before she burst into flames." The Avengers are silent, awestruck and likely flipping through Sam's FBI file in their minds, bits and pieces of Sam's public life beginning to fit into place now that other pieces are being discovered. It's like a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle—they only had seven pieces from the middle, and now they've got all four corners and most of the edges. The basis of Sam's mysterious life, but not everything. Never everything. "My father knew my mother wasn't killed by something natural, so he sought out a local psychic who told him the truth about the supernatural." Sam smiles weakly. "That's what I mean when I say some of us were forced into it. Hunters are either born, or they're made. And now that the original families are beginning to die out, most of us are of the latter group. We started hunting because a monster murdered someone close to us and we had the misfortune of being there to see it."

"Your friend Jody that you mentioned to those three hunters, is she also a hunter?" Natasha asks and Sam nods—he's going to have to warn Jody about the Avengers' knowledge of her because Natasha is undoubtedly going to be doing some research.

"My father befriended a hunter very soon after my mother's death," Sam says. "This other hunter, Bobby, lived in a small town in South Dakota. Jody was the sheriff there, and Dean and I first met her when the dead in her town started rising. Her son was one of them, and she tried to stop us from interfering, doing what a lot of people do when something supernatural happens. Calling it a miracle and leaving it at that." Sam wrinkles his nose, recalling the scene he walked into the day that Jody was first exposed to the supernatural.  "Jody became a hunter after she discovered her son eating her husband's body in her living room." As Sam expected the Avengers look horrified by that mental image,  and Sam nods grimly. "I had to kill her son,  and we had to tell her the truth about the supernatural. She became a close ally after that, helping Dean and me with several cases and eventually adopting two young girls who had both lost their families to supernatural causes."

"So there are vampires and... zombies, but what else?" Rogers asks hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, there are werewolves, and ghosts, and angels... and demons," Sam says, unsurprised when this final word draws the Avengers' immediate attention. "Those are the big guys, the most powerful and the hardest to kill. You've already had an encounter with a demon, actually. The Demon, who you know as Norman Whitmore, lives up to his name."

"Wait, Whitmore was a demon?" Clint asks in disbelief. His expression is mirrored on the faces of most of the rest of Sam's audience, but Tony looks like he's beginning to understand—as the Avenger most involved in the Demon's takedown and subsequent imprisonment, it makes sense that the genius is starting to connect the dots.

"Norman Whitmore was a completely ordinary human being who had the misfortune of being possessed by a demon with high aspirations," Sam explains. "Before SHIELD took the Demon to whatever secret prison he's currently in, I checked his body and discovered that he had been stabbed in the chest. Norman Whitmore was dead, his body likely vacated before the Demon took over."

"So, all that stuff you told me about how to keep Whitmore from escaping..." Tony trails off when Sam nods, sighing.

"It was all supernatural traps specially designed to keep demons at bay," Sam confirms. "My past experiences with the supernatural are the reason the Demon wanted me dead, by the way. Dean and I have developed a bit of a reputation among both the supernatural creatures we hunt and the hunters we work with, as you probably saw in Matt Trenton's reaction."

"He was treating you like you were some kind of celebrity." Clint comments.

"In hunters' circles, I kind of am," Sam admits hesitantly. "A lot of hunters will kill pretty much anything supernatural, but most have a specialty of some kind. I knew a man, for instance, who almost solely killed vampires. Dean and I specialize in demons."

"Why?" Rogers asks simply, and Sam bites down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

"Because the monster who killed my mother was a demon," Sam says after a minute. He doesn't want to remember the lowest points of his life, the horrors he was forced to endure by a seemingly endless string of demons. He doesn't want to remember his mother's death or Jessica's, but he doesn't want to remember the Lebanon bombing or the months that followed, either. But it's inevitable that anything Sam shares at this point will be connected to Sam's abilities, and Darkside will quickly become a significant part of the conversation. And the Avengers really do deserve to know the truth about Sam's abilities.

They've done far too much for him not to tell him something that important.

"Ten years before I was born, a demon killed John Winchester while he was on a date with his girlfriend and future wife, Mary Campbell." Sam begins, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "The demon spoke to my mother, then, and told her that he'd bring my father back to life under the condition that she allow him access into her home in exactly ten years. She agreed, and after John was brought back to life, she swore off hunting and never told him what happened. Six years later, they had a baby boy named Dean. And another four years later, they had me." Sam shakes his head. "And then, six months after I was born and ten years to the day after my mother made her deal,  a demon broke into our house and killed her. My father is the one who discovered her,  but he and my brother both learned the truth that night, about the monsters. I didn't find out until twelve years later when I found my father's journal on the supernatural." Sam sighs deeply, his voice shaking almost imperceptibly—but he knows the Avengers can hear it. "I hunted with my family for six years, but I didn't enjoy it. I wanted to be normal, to save people without killing anyone. So I left. I got a full ride to Stanford and decided I was going to become a lawyer, and I never looked back."

"But you started hunting again," Natasha says, and Sam nods solemnly, memories of heat and flames and shining blue eyes flickering at the edges of his vision.

"I didn't hunt while I was a Stanford. I really did think that I had left hunting behind." Sam explains. "But like my mom discovered the night of her death, I figured out the hard way that you can't leave the supernatural. It will always find you. In my case,  Dean came knocking on my door and asked me to help him find our father, who had gone missing on a hunt. I thought it would be one final case, right up until the moment I got back to my apartment and found my girlfriend on the ceiling, a moment before she burst into flames." Sam doesn't mention that both women were in his bedroom, doesn't mention the poison that ran through his veins long before Darkside was a thought on anyone's mind. That's information that will surely come out eventually, but Sam wants to hold on to it for now.

Wants the Avengers to remain clueless about the monster that still claws at the corners of Sam's mind.

"Dean and I were able to kill that demon." Sam says after a minute, averting his gaze from the Avengers and watching as the suspended vampire head spins in a slow circle. "We learned that his name was Azazel, that he was a Prince of Hell. A powerful demon, one of the oldest, one of the first. And after his death, we thought it was over until we discovered that there were three more Princes. And we killed two more." Sam closes his eyes, and when he opens them the city is no longer bathed in yellow.

The Avengers don't need to know about Azazel and the Special Children, or about Lucifer and the apocalypse. They don't need to know about the destiny that Sam defied or the centuries that he spent paying for his defiance. But they need to know about Darkside. And they need to know about Asmodeus.

"And then, a little over a year ago, Dean and I found evidence that there were demons in Lebanon, Kansas," Sam says, and the Avengers stiffen almost as one. They know what's coming, what Sam is about to reveal. Or at least, they think that they do. "Years ago, Dean and I found a bunker on the outskirts of Lebanon, belonging to an organization called the Men of Letters. These individuals worked alongside hunters, cataloging monsters and searching for new ways to defeat them. Dean and I have lived in that bunker ever since we found it. It's warded against demons so that they couldn't find the exact location, but somehow they managed to discover that it was somewhere in Lebanon." Sam probes the sore developing on his cheek with his tongue then bites down harder, using the sharp pain to focus his mind, to anchor him to the here and now so he can deliver this story without slipping into a memory. "On October 5th, Dean and I were able to learn the demons' plans, and we found a bomb that they had planted in town. But we couldn't disarm it; there wasn't enough time. So we ran. Dean toward the edge of the city, toward his car and toward the police officers he had no idea were waiting, and me toward the city center. Sam's breathing picks up despite his best efforts, shaky and harsh. Remembering Lebanon is one thing, but retelling it is another. Hearing himself describe what happened to him is painful in a way Sam could never have imagined.

"And the bomb went off and tore off your leg." Tony continues, his tone clinical, only a slight hint of the emotions he's feeling finding its way into his voice. Sam leans heavily against the wall, his eyes flaring yellow as his emotions threaten to take control.

"I was kidnapped," Sam says after a minute, shaking his head. "I woke up in a basement, tied to a table, then later to a chair. And for the next four months, that's where I stayed."

"And that's where you got your powers," Rogers recalls with a frown.

"I was kidnapped by demons, likely the same ones who set the bomb in Lebanon. Their leader was the last Prince of Hell, Asmodeus. Brother of the demon who killed my mother." Sam pauses,  eyes flashing. "There are a few varieties of demons, but they have similar sets of abilities. They can move things with their minds." Sam drops his hand to his side, and the vampire head that's been floating beside him falls to the sidewalk, rolling down the street for a moment before coming to a stop. The vacant eyes of the monster stare directly into Sam's and he frowns, gnawing on his abused cheek. After a moment, he flicks his wrist and the head flips over, the dead eyes turning away from Sam.

He can't bear to look into the eyes of someone he killed, monster or not.

"They can teleport." Sam continues, returning his attention to the Avengers. "They have enhanced strength, enhanced healing, enhanced senses." The Avengers surely realize by now that Sam is listing off his own abilities, and when Tony opens his mouth to acknowledge this parallel, Sam just nods to confirm the genius's thoughts. "I received my abilities from Asmodeus. He injected me with his blood, forced it into my heart, into my veins. And it gave me his powers. But it also gave me something else." Sam's eyes glow brightly, and he smiles weakly, pointing at them. "Demons have a ranking. Some are more powerful than others, and some simply have different jobs. The color of their eyes identifies them." Sam pauses again, watching as the Avengers stare directly into his eyes, into the swirling yellow irises that have long haunted Sam's nightmares. "The most powerful demons, the first demons and the oldest demons, they have white eyes. The lowest demons, henchmen and soldiers, have black eyes. And the Princes of Hell have yellow eyes." Sam hesitates, blinking twice and watching as the world changes colors for just a moment. "I've never actually seen Darkside's eyes. I can't see them, not even in a mirror. They don't show up. But I've been told that they're yellow, that they look just like the eyes of a Prince of Hell."

"You can't see your own eyes?" Clint asks,  clearly confused.

"Nope." Sam punctuates his statement with a sharp shake of his head, realizing for the first time that unlike the rest of his abilities, his yellow vision isn't readily apparent. "It may look like I'm just changing my eye color, but it's actually more than that." Sam blinks again and his eyes return to normal, as does his vision. "When my eyes turn yellow, so does everything I see. As a result, I gain the ability to see more clearly in the dark, as well as to see the souls of humans and of monsters. But the side effect is that the entire world turns a shade of yellow that masks my eyes. When I look into a mirror, I see pupils on a white background. No swirling iris."

"What happened to Asmodeus?" Natasha asks, quickly identifying the most pressing part of Sam's story.

"I don't know." Sam admits. "I escaped last February, and shortly after that, I encountered the Demon for the first time. He knew who I was and knew what Asmodeus had done to me, but I don't think he was one of Asmodeus's followers. I'm not entirely sure why Asmodeus hasn't come back for me, but I know he's still out there somewhere."

"Do you know why?" Rogers questions. "Why he gave you those abilities, why he kidnapped you, why he hasn't tried to get you back?"

"I don't." Sam says hesitantly. "Whatever Asmodeus had planned for me, I was never informed of it." Sam shakes his head, pulling up his mask. "Right now, it doesn't matter. We need to do something with these bodies. And then we need to deal with whoever killed the Judge, and my trial." The Avengers don't need further prompting to get to work,  shuttling the vampires' bodies and heads into a truck that Tony summons within a few minutes. With a promise that the bodies with be incinerated and the warehouse cleaned and put back together with no questions asked, Sam and the Avengers head back to the tower.

As soon as they reach the communal lounge, most of the Avengers break off, likely to do more research on the supernatural and to inform the rest of their team of what they've learned. The only one remaining when Sam pulls down his mask and sinks onto one of the couches with a heavy sigh is Tony. The genius observes quietly as Sam leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his forehead—between the stress and the amount of time his eyes have been yellow, Sam has a monster headache.

"I'm going to bed." Sam declares after a minute, climbing to his feet and heading for the elevator. If you or the rest of the Avengers have any questions about all that crap I just unloaded on you, please wait until at least noon tomorrow." Sam leans against the wall of the elevator and Tony pauses just outside of it, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Demon sight." He says, and Sam frowns, holding out his hand to stop the elevator doors from closing.

"What?" Sam questions, and Tony gestures to Sam's face—or rather, Sam supposes, to his eyes.

"Demon sight." Tony repeats. "That's what your vision is. It's demon sight." The genius flashes Sam a snarky smile then turns and walks away without another word. Sam retracts his arm and the elevator doors slide closed, and as the elevator heads toward Sam's floor, Sam smiles weakly, recalling what Bruce told him in the library so long ago.

Tony cements his friendships with nicknames. He's been calling Sam Sasquatch for a while now, but his new name for Sam's most powerful ability is an even more critical benchmark.

By calling Sam Sasquatch, Tony confirmed that he had accepted Sam Winchester. But by naming Sam's demon sight, he accepted the parts of Sam that Sam never wanted anyone to see, the parts of him he was terrified would alienate him from the people he's finally begun to call his friends.

By accepting Sam's demon sight, Tony has accepted Sam's demons.


	32. Chapter 32

When Sam started staying at Avengers Tower, he wasn’t sure what to expect. In his mind—as well as in most everyone else’s, he supposes—he saw the Avengers as gods, people who weren’t afraid of anything. In the same vein, he assumed that whatever time they had outside of saving the world was spent either training or relaxing—or whatever it is that superheroes do for fun.  
  
Now, after almost two months, Sam knows better.  
  
He knows that Bucky Barnes has nightmares about his time as the Winter Soldier and that Natasha Romanoff hides a warm heart beneath her cold exterior. He knows that Tony Stark hides his fears behind his snark and Bruce Banner is continuously terrified, both of losing control of the monster within and of the public’s opinion of him. He knows that the heroes the world holds on a pedestal are just as human as everyone else. But there’s one Avenger Sam never thought could be imperfect. Maybe it’s Dean’s hero-worship bleeding into him, but Sam sees Captain Rogers as a little too pristine to be affected by the issues that plague even his teammates.  
  
Or at least he did, until the night that Sam stumbles across the first Avenger on once of his midnight walks.  
  
Ever since Bruce showed him the library, Sam has made a point to pick up a new book at least once every couple of days. He often spends sleepless nights—of which there are many—curled up in the far corner of the room, nose buried in a classic from Tony’s impressive collection. As far as Sam is aware, Tony himself doesn’t do much reading, but Sam has noticed on several occasions that books disappear from and reappear on the shelves, giving him the impression that someone other than himself and Bruce—who rarely takes books out of the library—is utilizing the collection.  
  
The library is the only room in Avengers Tower, Sam has noticed, that is void of the constant hum of machinery that fills the rest of the rooms. Bruce said that Tony never got around to wiring JARVIS into this room, which explains some of the silence, but Sam can’t help but wonder what other integral parts of Avengers Tower’s inner workings were left out of this particular room, and why. He certainly doesn’t mind the quiet, though. When Sam’s senses go haywire, the mechanical noises of the tower often become hard to bear. The library is a sanctuary in more ways than one.  
  
Sam’s trips to the library are often very routine—come down in the elevator, grab a book, read it in the corner for a while, then maybe grab another book to take back to his room—but one late night, he finds himself distracted. The library is on a multipurpose floor with several other rooms, most of which Sam has never seen the inside of. According to Bruce, this is the floor where most of the Avengers go to escape their troubles. In the same way that Bruce—and now Sam—find refuge among the library stacks, there are rooms tailored for the other Avengers, although most of the rooms can likely be utilized by anyone. Sam knows that the room adjacent to the library is a dance studio and the one across the hall is a sauna—although which Avengers spend their time there is a mystery—but the hallway holds three more doors beyond the library that Sam has never seen into before. At the late hours that Sam frequents the floor, the library is usually the only occupied room. Not tonight.  
  
Tonight, there’s a light shining through the door closest to the far end of the hallway.  
  
Sam is already standing at the library door by the time he notices the light, and he very nearly continues into the library regardless. It’s none of his business, of course, whose room that is, and the Avengers certainly deserve a level of privacy in their own home. But Sam is a naturally curious person, and as much as he tries to avoid other people, he does actually appreciate the company. Especially on nights like tonight when memories of bloodstained rooms and demons with shining yellow eyes are at the forefront of his mind. Plus, by now Sam has developed a certain level of camaraderie with the majority of the Avengers, one that makes him feel significantly more comfortable confiding in them—although not to the degree that he would with his brother or a close friend like Jody.  
  
His feet light and his muscles tensed, Sam makes his way down the hallway, stopping just outside of the last room. He isn’t sure what exactly to expect—if his life of supernatural and superheroic conflict has taught him anything, it’s to expect the unexpected—but what he finds didn’t even make the list. Inside the room, Steve Rogers sits at a desk, sketching the face of a man with smooth horns protruding from his curly hair.  
  
Sam’s breath catches in his throat as he watches silently, feeling as though he’s stumbled across something he never should have seen. He never once considered that Captain Rogers might have a room on this floor, or that he would even need one. Watching the Captain drawing like that, so relaxed, so vulnerable, makes Sam feel like an intruder.  
  
He’s just made up his mind to turn around and head back to the library when Captain Rogers looks up and smiles.  
  
“Hey, Sam.” He says brightly—even though Rogers isn’t Sam’s biggest fan, he’s still almost annoyingly polite—as he waves Sam into the room. Sam opens the glass door slowly, stepping into the room and looking around in awe. The room itself seems quite homely, with an old brown couch against the far wall, an antique coffee table in front of it. Captain Rogers is seated at a matching antique desk, and to his left an easel holds a half-finished sketch of Avengers Tower, stretching up into the sky. But what shocks Sam is that the desk, table, and every wall of the room is covered in hand-drawn images of everything from Tony’s helmet to a pocket watch to Captain Rogers’s shield, all in nearly photorealistic detail and infinitely better than any other sketches Sam has seen—or made—in his life.  
  
Rogers gestures to the couch and Sam shakes his head, hovering awkwardly in the doorway and absorbed in the irrational fear that by merely entering the room he’ll destroy the calm feeling that pervades it.  
  
That calm feeling, Sam quickly realizes, is significantly assisted by the fact that, like the library, the studio—because it has become rapidly apparent that this is Captain Rogers’s personal studio—is devoid of the mechanical hum of Avengers Tower.  
  
“Trouble sleeping?” Rogers asks, and Sam looks away from a sketch of a 1940s motorcycle—there were once several of a similar build in the garage at the bunker—to find the Captain watching him curiously.  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Sam says hesitantly, face heating up at the prospect of Rogers finding Sam’s fascination with his art strange. “Bruce showed me the library a couple of weeks ago.” Sam continues in an attempt to draw the attention away from his scattered mind. “I come down here sometimes to read.”  
  
“Oh yeah, Bucky does the same thing. I’ll see him reading on the deck after a bad day.” Captain Rogers says, his eyes shining with a softness reserved exclusively for his best friend. “I’m not much of a reader myself, but I pull.a book out of there every once in a while.” Sam nods, biting his cheek.  
  
“What about you?” He asks after a minute. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen you down here before. Are you having trouble sleeping too?” The question was casual conversation when Rogers asked it, but it sounds far too forward coming out of Sam’s mouth. He immediately regrets asking, but luckily Rogers doesn’t seem to mind.  
  
“I’ve never been great at getting my eight hours,” Rogers admits. “Pre-serum I was usually either sick or sore, and the serum makes it so that I don’t actually need as much sleep to begin with. It’s hard to sleep anyway when your brain doesn't shut off.” Sam nods in agreement, returning his attention to the picture that Rogers was drawing when Sam came in—and continued to draw throughout their conversation. The man with the horns has a beard now, and a goatee. He looks vaguely familiar with facial hair, but Sam isn’t entirely sure why.  
  
“What is that?” Sam asks hesitantly, nodding to the picture. Rogers turns to his desk, glancing at his sketch and frowning.  
  
“It’s supposed to be a demon.” He says, shrugging. “I’ve never actually seen one, of course, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said the other night.” Sam bites his cheek again, remembering the abridged, limited version of the ‘monsters are real’ talk he had to give the Avengers.  
  
“Well, for starters, demons don’t have horns. At least, not any that I’ve ever seen.” Sam says, stepping closer to the desk and examining the Captain’s drawing more closely. “At first glance, they look just like regular people, because that’s what they are. Demons possess regular people, walking around in their bodies and basically pretending to be human.”  
  
“If they look human, how can you tell that it’s a demon?” Rogers asks.  
  
“Their eyes. Always their eyes.” Sam says with an involuntary shudder. “Demons use their vessel’s eyes most of the time, but their real eyes come through when they’re fighting, or in some cases when you say the word ‘Christo.’ Then their eyes turn black, or red, or yellow, depending on the demon.”  
  
“Yellow like your eyes?” Captain Rogers asks, and Sam shakes his head.  
  
“Not exactly.” He says, biting the inside of his cheek as he thinks about how to properly explain without outright summoning a demon. After a minute, Sam grabs a blank sheet of paper and one of Rogers’s many pencils. “It’ll be easier just to show you,” Sam says, waiting until Rogers nods his confirmation to sketch two pairs of eyes. He fills one pair almost entirely in but takes his time with the other, detailing the eyes that haunt his nightmares. “Here,” Sam says after a minute, offering the paper to Rogers, who sets it down on top of his own drawing and studies the pairs of eyes closely. “The black ones are standard for low-level demons, the most common. If you ever do run into a demon, more likely than not it will be one of them. Norman Whitmore was possessed by one of those guys.” Sam pauses, shaking his head as uncomfortable images begin to crowd his mind. “Imagine that other pair in yellow, kind of like Darkside’s but without a pupil. Those are the eyes of a Prince of Hell. Like I said the other day, there’s only one of them left now.” Rogers nods to acknowledge Sam’s words, but he seems distracted.  
  
“These are really good,” Rogers says after a minute, smiling. “You didn’t strike me as an artist.”  
  
“You aren’t really the type, either.” Sam points out. “I used to sketch out the things I saw in my nightmares.” He doesn’t add that the drawings were useful in recording details from the nightmares that became visions, or that his drawing skills were mostly subpar until his century and a half in Hell—even Lucifer took breaks, sometimes. “I got pretty good at it and discovered somewhere along the way that it’s pretty relaxing, too." Rogers nods, his smile softening.  
  
“I know the feeling.” He says. “I’ve always liked to draw, but ever since I got out of the ice, I’ve been doing it more and more. Drawing supplies are a lot cheaper nowadays, first of all, but it’s also kind of therapeutic to sketch out the things that confuse me. Helps me understand the future a bit better when I really focus on the details.” Sam nods, smiling sympathetically as Rogers’s gaze strays to the image of the motorcycle—one that Sam assumes once belonged to him. Sometimes Sam forgets that Captain Rogers is from another time entirely. Sam’s present day was once Rogers’s distant future, and Sam can’t imagine how confusing it must have been to be suddenly thrust 70 years into the future and forced to learn not just how to survive, but how to save the world.  
  
“So it’s like stress relief?” Sam asks, and Rogers laughs.  
  
“I guess,” Rogers says. “You know, I’ve been here for a few years now, and I’m still nowhere near caught up. A lot has changed in 70 years, not just in foreign relations and with the aliens and all but in things like pop culture, too. I mean, I missed out on multiple eras of music. Stark has been trying to get me into classic rock, but Clint is dead set on introducing me to the Beatles.” Sam can’t help but smile at this, picturing Tony and Clint arguing over whether to listen to the Beatles or Led Zeppelin while Rogers looks on in confusion.  
  
“I don’t really listen to music all that often, but I’m sure Dean would side with Tony on that one,” Sam says. Rogers nods, still smiling, although it has gained a certain tightness. Sam knows that his presence in the tower has been hard for Rogers, who has a strict sense of right and wrong. And although the Captain has somewhat accepted Sam, Dean is another story. Sam is a monster hunter, a vigilante who works in tandem with some pretty credible superheroes, and a friend of several of the Avengers, and Rogers has experienced all of that firsthand. But to him, Dean is still only a convicted serial killer spending the rest of his days in prison. Rogers knows that Sam is innocent, has watched him fight for that innocence, but Dean is guilty. The courts have already found Dean guilty. And despite Sam’s efforts to expose the Avengers to the real Dean, most of them can’t really see the connection between the big brother with a big heart that Sam is trying to introduce them to and the mass murderer being held in a maximum security prison for the rest of his life.  
  
The conversation lapses into an uncomfortable silence, and Sam shifts his weight as Rogers grabs a clean sheet of paper and begins to sketch the outline of a face. Sam clears his throat awkwardly and turns, heading for the door.  
  
“Sam, wait,” Rogers says, and Sam turns back around to see the first Avenger giving him a once-over. “I’m sorry about how cold I’ve been to you recently.” Sam immediately shakes his head.  
  
“You haven’t been-“  
  
“Yeah, I have.” Rogers interrupts Sam’s protest, holding up a hand to stay any further comments. “I want you to know that my priority is the safety of my team. I had to make sure that I could trust you.” He pauses, and Sam nods—this isn’t news to him, and it makes perfect sense. “But that doesn’t excuse my behavior.” Rogers continues. “When you came to us, you needed protection, and you needed friends, and I was only willing to offer you one of those things. My team was smarter than me on this one. They knew that you were a good person, and they’ve spent the past month trying to convince me of that. I wouldn’t let myself see what was right in front of me. I think you’re a good person with a big heart, Sam, and I wish I had realized it sooner.”  
  
“Thank you,” Sam says awkwardly, and Rogers smiles warmly.  
  
“You know, Bucky took a liking to you the second you walked through the door for the first time.” He says. “Buck has been trying to convince me this entire time that you’re trustworthy. He’s always been great at reading people, and I hold his opinion very highly. If Bucky is willing to vouch for you the way that he has been, I’m inclined to believe that you’re a much better person than the world seems to think.” Sam smiles, nodding and picturing the shy soldier with the metal arm. Other than Natasha, Bucky was the only person who was on Sam’s side from the beginning. He accepted Sam’s innocence without question, and Sam suspects that Bucky’s willingness to befriend him had a lot to do with the fact that Bucky knows what it’s like to have his life torn from him without warning. He knows how it feels to be destroyed by something that is entirely out of his control.  
  
So too, Sam figures, does Captain Rogers.  
  
“Bucky is a good person, Captain Rogers,” Sam says. “I think pretty highly of his opinion, too.” Rogers smiles, and Sam turns back toward the door, ready to leave. He knows that he’s overstayed his welcome. But Captain Rogers doesn’t seem to agree.  
  
“I wish he could see how good he really is,” Rogers says wistfully. “And Sam?”  
  
“Yes?” Sam asks, turning around one last time. Captain Rogers is holding out a sheet of paper with a sketch on it. Sam takes it hesitantly, looking it over. It’s not the picture Rogers started a moment ago or even the one he was working on when Sam first came into the room. This sketch is complete, and unlike the majority of Rogers’s work, it actually has some color.  
  
It’s a profile of Sam from the front, although he’s looking off to the left of the paper. He’s smiling, mouth open and frozen mid-laugh, and although he’s only pictured from the shoulders up, Sam can tell that he’s wearing a plaid flannel and a t-shirt. The image almost looks like a candid black-and-white photograph, except for one small detail. Rogers didn’t draw Sam’s eyes, he drew Darkside’s. Sam’s eyes are the only color on the page, a blend of various shades of yellow, and colored so intricately and masterfully that even in the still image, Sam’s irises appear to be swirling.  
  
“You mentioned the other day that you can’t see your own eyes,” Rogers explains, “so I figured I’d show them to you.” Sam smiles gratefully, holding the sketch delicately as he turns away.  
  
“Thank you, Captain Rogers. I really mean it.” Sam heads for the door, still looking down at Rogers’s sketch and committing each tiny detail to memory. When he reaches the doorway, he’s stopped in his tracks by Rogers’s next words.  
  
“Please, call me Steve.”  
  
Sam turns around again, but Rogers has already turned back to his desk, drawing diligently. The picture on the desk is the new one, the face that he just started. As Sam watches from the doorway, Rogers—Steve—picks up his pencil and begins to shade in the eyes.  
  
Sam turns and heads for the library with the drawing in his hand. He selects a book he’s had his eye on for the last week and settles down into his usual corner, the book resting on one knee and the drawing on the other. But even as he tries to lose himself in the story, Sam’s mind remains on the image of Captain Steve Rogers sketching a picture of a man with pure black eyes.  
  
The truth is out, now. The last piece of innocence the Avengers had is gone. There’s no going back now.  
  
And yet, Sam finds that he doesn’t really mind.


	33. Chapter 33

_The city is silent as Sam walks down the sidewalk. The streets of Manhattan are empty, and the windows are dark, and even the wind that whips through Sam's hair doesn't make a sound as it passes. The peculiar quiet has a foreboding quality—the city doesn't feel like it's sleeping so much as holding its breath, waiting for something to happen._

_The city is silent, and the city is empty, but as Sam walks down the sidewalk, it feels as if the eyes of the world are on him._

_Sam is wandering aimlessly, but some part of him knows exactly where he's going, knows exactly what path to take. And when he turns a corner to find himself standing at the entrance of an all too familiar park, Sam understands why._

_This is a vision._

_The leaves that crunch beneath Sam's feet as he enters the park don't make a sound._

_Sam stops beneath an illuminated lamp just off the path, his body straightening and his muscles tensing in anticipation of something that—considering the track record of Sam's visions—can't possibly be good.  A moment later, the shadowed figure Sam instantly recognizes from his past visions as the Judge approaches, and it's like a switch flips. The world bursts into sound. The buzzing of the lamp and the leaves crunching under the Judge's feet and the sound of Sam's own breathing, his heartbeat, appear all at once, overwhelming Sam, who closes his eyes and ducks his head lest his yellow vision spark into existence—he can't let that happen, but he doesn't know why. By the time Sam has his emotions back under control, the footsteps have stopped, and when Sam looks up he's staring down the barrel of a gun at a face obscured by shadows—not shadows cast by the trees and buildings that surround them or shadows created by the dark night and the dim lamp but shadows manufactured by Sam's mind to cover a vast blank space in his knowledge._

_The people have always been the most important part of Sam's visions, but even Sam's supernatural side doesn't seem to know who the Judge really is._

_Or maybe it does, Sam reasons when the finger on the trigger twitches and a bullet buries itself in Sam's right knee without ever making a sound.  Because when Sam drops to the ground and the gun shifts to his chest, Sam could swear he catches a brief glimpse of coppery-red._

Sam is unsurprised when he wakes with a start almost as soon as the second shot is fired—there's no doubt in his mind that the shot was lethal, and while Sam's mind has no qualms about injuring him severely in his visions, he has yet to actually die in one. But the similarities between this latest series of visions and the dreams Sam has had in the past end there. Unlike Sam's visions of the bank shooting, the visions of the encounter in the park are only getting stranger the longer they go on. Rather than giving him answers, each new rendition of the scene leaves him with more questions. What is he doing in the park that night? Where is everyone else in the usually tireless city of Manhattan? Why is the Judge there, and why isn't Sam afraid or even surprised to see him? And why can't Sam see the Judge's face?

Unable to find answers and unwilling to search any deeper—the last thing Sam needs just after escaping a vision is to inadvertently trap himself in another one—Sam climbs out of bed and decides to get some breakfast.

When Sam pads into the communal lounge a few minutes later, he finds Bucky seated at the bar and Steve in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. The super soldier pulls out a gallon of milk and sets it down beside the three cereal boxes at Bucky's left, rounding the bar to sit beside his friend and pouring himself a bowl of Lucky Charms—Tony keeps a wide variety of cereals in his kitchen, but Sam has noticed that the sugary ones are by far the most popular.

"Hey, kid," Bucky says with a bright smile, gesturing for Sam to take the third barstool to his right. Sam sits down and takes the bowl passed to him by Steve, then the Fruit Loops offered by Bucky. He's just poured in the milk and taken his first bite when Tony bursts into the room from the private entrance, his face red from exertion but his eyes shining with excitement.

"JARVIS, put it on the TV," Tony says breathlessly as he jogs over to the bar, grabbing Sam's arm and pulling him out of his seat and toward the sectional that faces the large television. Sam complies hesitantly, caught off guard by Tony's enthusiasm—and a little bit shaken by the unexpected grabbing. Possibly as a result of Sam's clear unease, Steve and Bucky abandon their breakfasts, following Sam and Tony to the couches. Steve stands at the edge of the sofa that Tony and Sam are seated on but Bucky sits down at Sam's right, offering him a reassuring grin before turning his attention to the TV, which has just switched on.

The image staring Sam down is one that is all too familiar—it's a street-level camera showing the front door of what can only be a Biggerson's, one that, considering Tony's excitement, can only be the very building in Lebanon where Sam discovered the bomb.

"What is this?" Steve questions as the footage begins to play, showing several people dressed in Biggerson's employee uniforms—Sam recognizes a couple as demons he killed that fateful day—entering the building.

"This is footage recovered from Lebanon, Kansas," JARVIS says. "It was found by a friend of Sam's who referred to themselves as Alex and said they have been helping with the cleanup in Lebanon."

"I got an email saying this footage was taken from an ATM at the bank directly across the street from the Biggerson's," Tony says, and Sam nods, picturing the local bank in his mind. He figured it had cameras—most banks do—but assumed that any recorded footage would have been destroyed—very few businesses in Lebanon had cloud backups, which is one of the main reasons why finding proof of Sam's innocence has been so difficult.

"The footage is time-stamped 7:12:19 on October 4, 2017." JARVIS continues.

"And at 7:15, it gets _really_ interesting," Tony says excitedly. The footage has no sound, so Sam and the three Avengers watch in silence as two people argue on the sidewalk, several cars drive past, and a dog runs down the street with half of a clearly broken red leash trailing behind him. At 7:15, two men enter the camera's view carrying something large between them that's covered with a sheet. Just as the two are about to disappear into the Biggerson's, a young woman in a tracksuit sprints down the sidewalk and crashes into one of the men, dropping a piece of red cord and a bag of what appears to be dog treats as she reaches out to steady herself and accidentally pulls the sheet to the ground.

Sam stares in shock at the very bomb he found in the freezer of the Biggerson's a day later, which is only visible for a moment before the pair of men exchange a look and hurry into the Biggerson's returning less than a minute later empty-handed. They complete several more trips without incident and Sam figures that the rest of the transported materials were the explosives that lined the walls of the freezer. As the men leave for the final time, JARVIS pauses the footage and zooms in on their faces.

"I've been trying to restore some more of the footage on that freezer cam, working backward from the blast." Tony says, turning his attention to Sam. "I just started cleaning up the stuff from early morning October 4, but so far it corroborates this. Shows two guys loading the bomb into the freezer and setting it up with the help of one of the employees. No faces, at least for now, but the builds and clothing match the guys in this footage. Plus, none of the three have physical descriptions that are anywhere close to yours or Dean's, and no one else who entered the restaurant before this point could have possibly been one or both of you, either."

"This footage could prove that Dean and I weren't involved in planting the bomb," Sam says, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Exactly," Tony says proudly. "All we have to do now is finish cleaning up the freezer footage and get Murdock to admit it all as evidence."

"I'll call him right now," Sam says, pulling out the StarkPhone Pepper got him a couple of weeks ago and dialing Matt's number before he's even finished his sentence. The phone rings twice before Matt picks up, and the relatively chaotic background noise tells Sam that Matt is somewhere public.

"Sam? I'm at the courthouse."Matt says. "What's going on?"

"Tony found something that may prove that Dean and I didn't set the bomb," Sam says, describing the footage in as much detail as he can. When he's done, Matt hums his approval, calling across whatever room he's in for Foggy to join him.

"That may actually hold up in court, given we identify the two men and maybe the employee," Matt says. Sam relays the message to the three Avengers, who share a round of high-fives, excited on Sam's behalf. "Of course, the prosecution is going to try to spin it, but I think this could be good for us. I'll have to get Foggy to look the footage over as soon as possible."

"Sounds good, Matt," Sam says, listening over the line as Matt repeats Sam's description of the footage out loud, likely to a newly-arrived Foggy. The volume of the background noise picks up dramatically—Sam assumes that Matt put his phone on speaker—and a moment later Foggy adds his own confirmation of the footage's potential merits.

"Assuming we can find those three men, or at least learn if they died in the bombing, this could be exactly what we needed to win the case," Foggy says, and Sam frowns.

"What do you mean?" He questions.

"Well, your trial, and Dean's for that matter, are less about guilt and more about appeasing the public," Foggy explains. "The public wants someone to blame for this. The  _jury_ wants someone to blame for this."

"So even though this footage could prove that I'm innocent, it won't really matter unless we give the public someone else to blame." Sam infers.

"Exactly," Matt says with a sigh. "Welcome to the justice system, Sam."

"Your judgement will always come primarily from the public." Foggy adds.

"Well, thanks anyway, guys," Sam says.

As Tony, Bucky, and Steve chatter excitedly about how to move forward, Sam bids Matt and Foggy a subdued farewell, promising that JARVIS will send the footage to them and then hanging up and slipping his phone into his pocket.

Sam wants to be excited, and on some level, he is—finding this footage is a big deal, and it could be what Matt and Foggy need to convince the jury that Sam is innocent. But Sam knows perfectly well that the two men in that video are just as guilty as Sam is. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Sam doesn't doubt for a second that they were possessed that day when they set the bomb. They may have been killed by the Winchesters the following day—Sam knows that the employees most likely was—or they may have been killed in the blast or even by the demons directly, but on the off chance that they're still alive, they don't deserve to go to prison for the bombing.

Knowing that no matter what happens, the blame for the Lebanon bombing is going to forever be placed on the shoulders of someone innocent, Sam can't find it in himself to be excited.

But as Tony, Bucky, and Steve all grin, slapping Sam on the shoulders and asking him what he wants to do when all of this is finally over, Sam decides to keep his doubts to himself.

The Avengers have dedicated so much time to proving Sam's innocence. They deserve the chance to celebrate it.


	34. Chapter 34

The first snowfall of the year happens on the first day of December.

Sam never spent much time in New York—or most northern states for that matter—in his childhood. John Winchester tended to avoid big cities and cold weather, and after his death, Sam and Dean followed in his footsteps. Sam can't actually remember the last time he saw it snow—although there's a chance that may just be one of the many memories from Sam's past that were knocked loose by Lebanon and appear to have disappeared entirely from his mind—but when he looks out the window of his room to see white flakes floating through the air, Sam doesn't think about the snowball fights he had with Dean as a kid, or of the new life the world takes on when it's blanketed in a soft white.

What Sam thinks about when he sees the snow outside his window is that the falling crystals look just a little bit too much like flakes of ash.

Upon learning that Matt has decided to cancel a planned meeting between Sam and his lawyers at Avengers Tower—citing the crowded, icy streets and a need to look over the new footage Tony sent earlier that morning—Sam heads down to the gym, desperate for a distraction from the memories swirling in his mind.

Sam is fractured, his memories shattered, his mind and his body equally littered with scars. Anything and everything is a catalyst that breaks him further, and all it takes is a glimpse of snow to blur the line between reality and the world of darkness that lives within Sam's fragile psyche.

"Sam, what's up?" Natasha asks when Sam exits the elevator, bypassing the other occupants of the room in favor of the nearest punching bag—the apparatus holding up the bag was fixed by Tony after Sam broke it, and can now supposedly handle even his most emotionally-fueled hits.

"It's snowing," Sam says, glancing out one of the windows and shivering instinctively, eyes flickering yellow for a moment but returning to normal before he turns to look back at Natasha and Steve, who is standing beside the assassin and wrapping his knuckles with tape.

The cold that used to be refreshing is now a constant reminder to Sam of the ice that once filled his veins and the pure evil that accompanied it.

"Yeah, I'm surprised it hasn't already." Steve comments, finishing up his hands and passing the tape to Natasha. "It usually snows a lot earlier around here, but it's been pretty dry this year. Hasn't snowed since January, I don't think, maybe early February."

"Hasn't snowed since before I got here," Sam says, shaking his head. "I forgot how much snow can look like ash." Steve and Natasha are silent following Sam's admission, but he can see the sympathy in their eyes as they make the connection between Sam's statement and the memories that follow him everywhere he goes.

Sam can't remember the last time he saw it snow, but the ash and dust that rained down on him in Lebanon that fateful day looked strikingly similar.

"We should go to the lounge later," Natasha says, setting the tape down on a bench and climbing into one of the sparring rings, Steve right on her heels. "Stark's chest acts up when it's cold and wet outside, so whenever it snows he spends the day in the kitchen making Italian hot chocolate."

"It's incredible. Best cocoa I've ever had." Steve adds with a grin, and Sam offers the pair of Avengers a hesitant smile of his own before turning to the punching bag and striking it with a blow that isn't nearly as powerful—or emotional—as Sam expected it to be.

As Sam works out and Natasha and Steve spar, the snow continues to pile up outside. Little by little, the sounds of Manhattan are buried in sheets of white, muted even to Sam's ears. The gym itself is similarly quiet, the occasional grunt and slap of skin from the sparring ring the only thing that interrupts the rhythmic beating of Sam's fists against the punching bag. Sam came to the gym planning to fight, but instead, he trains, practicing specific punches he remembers being taught decades ago by his father, years ago by his brother, or weeks ago by Natasha. Each hit is repeated once, twice, ten times until Sam has perfected the motion and then moved past it, adding it to his arsenal only after molding it into his own style, his own form—like a sculpture carved from the ice.

Sam's fighting style is ever-changing, adapting not only to his opponent but to his body and his mind,  to the changes in himself both physical and mental. Sam channels every piece of his past, every instance of pain and guilt and happiness and love into the way he moves when his life depends on his actions. Everything he's experienced, every scar he wears today—and those that were erased by Heaven's hands—has changed him, and every time he changes, his fighting style changes with him.

When Sam was first being taught to fight, he sparred with Dean almost every day, and Dean almost always won. But Sam learned fast, learned to see his opponents strengths and their weaknesses, and what he saw was that Dean was stagnant. Dean fights well, and he fights powerfully but he also fights angry,  and that part of him will never change. And as soon as Sam saw that, he started to win, because he began to react. He began to change.

Sam drills his right fist into the punching bag, and white sand falls in a stream from a newly-formed split in the fabric, piling onto the floor like ash and collecting around Sam's feet like the snow that coats the streets outside.

When Sam was a kid, he loved the snow. Now, like so many other things, it's been poisoned by his memories.

Before long, everything Sam has ever held dear will be ruined by the life that he's been forced to live.

"Steve?!" Natasha's sharp tone breaks Sam out of his mind, and he turns to see the soldier sitting against the ropes in the corner of the ring, his eyes blown wide and his hands clawing disorientedly at his chest near his heart. Sam abandons the busted punching bag and teleports into the ring without a second thought—he doesn't know what's going on, but he doubts he has a second to spare.

"What happened?" Sam asks, dropping to his knees at Steve's left side as Natasha does the same on the soldier's right. She explains that they were sparring when Steve collapsed, that the soldier righted himself only to fall back down and grab at his chest like he is now. Steve looks panicked, and he looks like he's in pain, and considering where precisely on his chest he's reaching, Sam doesn't think this is a simple case of a cramp, or a bruise, or even a broken rib.

"JARVIS, call Tony," Natasha says, a hint of panic leeching into her tone that she doesn't even bother to try to hide. "Steve, can you hear me?" Natasha asks, and the soldier nods, his panic-stricken breathing hitching for a moment as he stares at his friends, unwilling or unable to verbally reply.

"What's going on?" Tony asks, bursting into the room from the stairs in the far corner with an entire team of doctors on his tail. The group makes a beeline for the ring and Sam stands, backing out of the way. He expects Natasha to follow, but the assassin remains frozen in place, and so Sam touches her shoulder lightly, beckoning her to the opposite corner of the ring as the doctors descend on Steve like vultures, talking quickly and far too quietly amongst themselves.

It's too quiet in the gym, in the tower, in the city. Every sound, every heartbeat is stifled by the snow.

Within seconds, Steve is lying on his back on a stretcher, which is lifted over the ropes and carried into the elevator.

"It's most likely a complication with the bullet." One of the doctors says to Tony as the doors close, and the fear in Natasha's eyes is gone in an instant, overshadowed by anger.

"What the hell does that mean?" She asks as Tony turns back to Natasha and Sam. Tony's gaze falls on Sam for a moment but Sam just nods sharply—he wants to know what's going on just as much as Natasha does.

Snow means peace to a child, but to Sam, it represents chaos—the pain of falling on a sheet of ice and the ash that flies through the air and into his eyes, his lungs.

As his emotions begin to build—fear, worry, apprehension—Sam picks up on the sound of a crying child, comforted by a mother who promises that everything will be okay.

Sam sometimes wishes he still believed in that particular platitude.

"When Cap was shot at the prison a few weeks back, the bullet hit his collarbone and fractured it." Tony begins, and Sam and Natasha both nod—that's the reason that Steve was required to wear a sling on his left arm for a week even after he was released from the medical floor. "It then ricocheted into his spine, where it became stuck." This is news to both Sam and Natasha, who looks about one second away from punching Tony in the face. The genius is clearly aware of this fact because he takes a few steps back before he continues. "The doctors were unable to remove the bullet at the time. Cap was too weak, and they didn't want to risk him being paralyzed by the procedure. So they left it."

"Okay, that... makes some sense." Natasha says hesitantly, clearly holding on to some anger because she was left out of the loop—or possibly because she didn't figure out the truth on her own.

"Cap's the one who decided to keep it from the rest of you," Tony says, shaking his head and huffing out a halfhearted and constricted laugh—Sam recalls that Natasha said Tony's chest bothers him in this weather, and he wonders if the genius is hiding his own pain behind his concern about Steve's. "Said he didn't want to worry any of you. Of course, that was when we thought the bullet wasn't going to cause any problems."

The snow is a bright, clean white as it floats through the air but the sky itself is a dark gray, and when the flakes pile up and turn to slush in the streets, gray is the color they become. Outside the window, the dark sky is a reflection of the mood of the gym's three occupants.

"Which it clearly has," Sam says, and Tony nods hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"To be honest, I'm not sure what exactly happened." He admits. "Cap was clearly feeling something in his chest, but it wasn't centered, wasn't on his spine. Too far to the left."

"Sir, Dr. Williams wants to speak to you immediately," JARVIS speaks up, and Tony turns tail and heads for the elevator without another word.  Sam follows him over, laying one hand on the genius's shoulder and reaching out to Natasha with the other. As soon as she grabs Sam's hand, he teleports all three of them to the medical bay three floors below the gym. A surprised doctor is standing in the hallway when they land, and Tony heads right for her. Natasha and Sam immediately follow, although Sam barely makes it to Tony before he's careening into the wall, his right shoulder impacting hard as his eyes flicker for a moment.

It's hard to walk in the snow. You have to work for it, have to fight every step of the way. Sam is all too familiar with that feeling—it wasn't so long ago that he was fighting for every step with no snow in sight. And even now, when he pushes himself too hard, he finds himself returning to a worrying state of unbalance that could one day get him killed.

"Are you alright, sir?" The doctor asks worriedly as Sam leans against the wall, closing his eyes.

"Three people," Sam says between breaths, shaking his head. "Never tried that before." Sam waves one hand dismissively, then gestures for the doctor to speak. "Carry on. I'll be fine." The doctor—Williams, Sam presumes—nods hesitantly but turns her attention back to Tony.

"The bullet dislodged from Captain Rogers's spine." She says. "The pain he felt was the bullet moving through his chest."

"Well, you can remove it now, right?" Tony asks. "No more risk of it paralyzing him."

"On the contrary, the risks have increased." Dr. Williams admits, eyeing Natasha—who looks like she's ready to string someone up by their toes—warily. "The bullet is no longer in Captain Rogers's spine but it has drifted dangerously close to his heart, and every time he moves it is pushed closer."

The winter is misleading, a danger that isn't obvious at first glance—a slick street coated in black ice or a girl with a sweet smile that sharpens the second you let your guard down. A lot of Sam's life has been filled with hidden danger, and something tells him that there's going to be a negative turn in this case, too.

"So you still can't remove it?" Natasha asks, and the doctor shakes her head.

"Not right now." She says. "We've contacted all of the top experts in cardiac surgery to see if the bullet can be safely removed, but we don't dare try ourselves, not so soon after it first shifted."

"But you said that every time Steve moves, the bullet gets closer to his heart," Sam says. "If you wait, he could die just by walking around."

"I'm aware," Williams says, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes for a moment. "Captain Rogers has been placed into a medical coma." She says, the other shoe that has been waiting to drop. "It's necessary to keep him completely still until the bullet can be removed or we can find some other way to remedy the situation."

"Oh, god," Natasha says, shaking her head. Williams opens her mouth, likely to reassure Natasha that everything is under control, but the assassin turns on her heel and disappears into the elevator without another word, likely retreating either to her own room or to Clint's.

"Thank you, Elsie," Tony says, inclining his head to the doctor, who returns the nod and heads down the hall in the opposite direction from Natasha. "I need to tell Barnes," Tony says, shaking his head as he turns to face Sam. "And everyone else, but Barnes is probably going to strangle me when he finds out Steve and I kept the bullet thing from him."

There's a stillness to the world when it's blanketed in white. To some, it's refreshing, like a scene out of a fairy tale, a new beginning. To Sam, it's foreboding, a reminder of the frozen moments in time just before he reached the end of an important story. Sam hates the stillness, but he knows that Bucky hates it even more.

"I'll tell him," Sam says, heading for the door he figures Steve is lying behind—it's the same room the soldier was in the last time he was on this floor. "Send him down here." Tony nods, clearly relieved, and utters a quick farewell before heading into the elevator. Sam opens the door to the room and steps inside, shaking his head when he sees Steve lying prone on the bed, his chest rising and falling softly and an IV of drugs running into his right arm. Sam has no idea what drug the doctors used—has no idea what drug  _could_ be used to put a super soldier into a coma—but he doubts it's pleasant, even as he hopes that it is. There's a heart monitor connected to Steve through a clip on his finger, but the machine is silent, a rhythmic beat moving across the screen but void of the accompanying beep. The room, like Steve and like the snow-covered city, is far too quiet.

Sam walks over to the plush sofa at the side of the room and sits down, looking out the window directly over the head of Steve's bed.

The snow continues to fall like ash, piling in the streets and the windowsill, and burying the sounds of a million heartbeats under a blanket of silence.


	35. Chapter 35

Telling Bucky about Steve's condition is far from easy, but Sam knows as soon as it's over that doing it himself was the right decision. The man who has quickly become Sam's close friend looks broken when he sees his oldest friend lying still in a hospital bed, his gaze never wavering even as Sam explains the bullet, the complications, and Steve's decision to keep some significant details from Bucky.

Tony was worried that Bucky was going to be angry when he was told, but upon learning the information he just looks sad, like this isn't something he's surprised by—like he's been kept out of the loop a million times before and he expects it to happen again and again in the future. It pains Sam to see that sorrowful acceptance in Bucky's eyes.

Sam still remembers the far too recent days when he saw it in his own, staring back at him in the mirror.

After Sam finishes telling Bucky what happened, Bucky takes a seat at Steve's bedside, and Sam quietly excuses himself from the room, fully aware that Bucky won't be leaving his best friend's side for at least the next few hours. Sam steps into the elevator intending to return to the gym, but he changes his mind on the way and exits the elevator into the lounge, where he finds Tony waiting with a mug of hot chocolate that he passes to Sam without a word.

Natasha and Clint are already seated on one of the couches when Sam arrives, and he sits across from them, drinking his hot chocolate and spending the rest of the day in silence, surrounded by anxious Avengers who enter the room one by one, each grabbing a mug and joining the solemn ring.

Steve was right. It's the best hot chocolate Sam has ever tasted. 

* * *

 

Sam's sleep is restless, interrupted by scenes from a disjointed vision that stutter in and out of view, flashes of frost-bitten snow and darkened city streets that are occasionally overtaken by glowing yellow eyes and hot red rooms. There's a sense of foreboding layered over it all, like something terrible is going to happen soon, and when Sam wakes with a start only a few hours after he fell asleep, the first thing that comes to his mind is that the encounter in his visions is going to be happening sooner rather than later.

The second thing that comes to his mind is that something is pressing on his neck, restricting his breathing.

Sam's eyes fly open, and he desperately tries to make out the face of the shadowed figure standing above him, wrapping their hands tightly around Sam's throat. Sam struggles as hard as he can, eyes flaring yellow as he attempts to fight off his attacker, only for every ounce of enhanced strength to leave his body when he realizes that the figure outlined in apparently white is missing one arm.

The lights come on at the same time that Sam's demon sight switches off, his high-strung emotions fading as soon as he registers that Bucky is the one standing above him. Bucky's eyes are blank, void of recognition, and although his face is twisted into an expression of anger, there's no heat behind it.

Instead, it's overwhelmingly cold.

"Sam!" Tony shouts from the doorway, and Sam turns his head as far as he can to see the genius standing frozen at the entrance to the room with Natasha and Sam Wilson directly behind him. Sam only spares a moment's glance at the trio before he's forced to return his attention to Bucky by the grip that suddenly constricts. Bucky's eyes are cold, but they're also dark, slightly glazed over but focused with laser-like intensity on Sam's face.

"What's going... on?" Sam chokes out as Bucky's grip tightens further. Instincts begin to take over as Sam's ability to breathe is compromised, and Sam grabs at Bucky's arms, his right hand struggling to find a hold on the smooth metal plates that make up Bucky's left arm. All attempts to free himself are in vain—Sam's being strangled by his friend but it's far too familiar a situation for him to be terribly emotional about it—and dark spots encroach on Sam's vision as the metal hand curls even more tightly around his throat, fingers digging into the skin on the back of Sam's neck and thumb pressing down on his Adam's apple.

"Not sure," Tony admits hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck. None of the three Avengers step further into the room, fully aware that they can't help Sam any more than he can help himself.

"He's reverted back to his coding," Natasha explains, a touch of worry in her tone that the rest of the room's occupants politely ignore. "Barnes spent several months in Wakanda, where the scientists attempted to decode the Winter Soldier. They made a lot of progress, but they weren't able to fully complete their work before other issues took precedence"—considering what Sam knows of the timeline, he assumes that the issues in question have something to do with Wakanda's arrival on the global stage—"so on occasion, he'll reactivate. It doesn't happen that often, usually only when Bucky is stressed out or gets a particularly brutal shock to his system."

"The whole situation with the bullet probably did it," Tony adds.

"Ok... kay," Sam mutters, gritting his teeth as Bucky's hold only tightens further. Before too much longer, Sam's throat will be crushed. At the moment, only Sam's demonic side is keeping him from passing out—apparently, demons don't need to breathe that much, which for once is an adaptation that serves Sam well.

Sam isn't nearly angry enough to force Bucky off of him, and his familiarity both with Bucky and with being assaulted by his friends means that he isn't going to be getting scared any time soon, either.

But maybe, just maybe, Sam can utilize a different emotion.

"Why me?" He asks, trying to swallow only to choke on nothing as the Winter Soldier pushes him down into his bed with enough force to crack the frame.

"Again, not sure," Wilson says, his words rushed as he tries to pack his explanations into as few precious seconds as possible. "When he first got to the tower, Bucky was still in Winter Soldier mode. We thought he was doing pretty well, eating and sleeping and responding to Steve, until we realized that he had just accepted Steve as one of his handlers and was following orders."

"The Winter Soldier may see you as a threat to his handler," Tony suggests. Sam nods as well as he can as guilt begins to build in the pit of his stomach.

"Why?" Sam urges with the last of his breath, black spots crowding his vision as the Winter Soldier, irritated by Sam's ability to hold a conversation, finally completely seals Sam's airway. Natasha's eyes widen at Sam's final, desperate question, and he sees it in her eyes the moment she finally realizes what it is that he's doing.

"Because you got Steve shot," Natasha says sharply and without an ounce of sympathy in her tone. Tony and Wilson turn to stare at the spy in shock, but she just smirks dryly, staring Sam down. "Because the Winter Soldier knows that you're the reason Steve is lying comatose in the med bay, so he's trying to kill you."

"Thanks." Sam chokes out, eyes flickering yellow as he's overwhelmed by emotion. He releases his tenuous hold on Bucky's arms and presses his palms into his friend's chest, shoving Bucky as hard as he can.

Bucky flies across the room, his back slamming into the wall with enough force to crack the foundation and shake the entire building slighty—if the rest of the Avengers weren't already aware of what's going on, they are now.

"Can't get angry," Sam explains breathlessly as he jumps to his feet and throws one hand up, pinning the Winter Soldier against the wall. "Guilt works just as well."

"Okay, well, now that Sam's not actively turning blue, how do we deprogram the Soldier?" Tony wonders aloud, apparently at a loss for a solution.

"You said he's done this before. What did you do then?" Sam asks, eyeing the Winter Soldier warily.

"Honestly, we just waited it out," Wilson admits. "The Soldier has never been violent before, just... vacant. Steve usually just has to make him eat and sleep for a few days until Bucky can take back control on his own."

"But we don't have Steve right now." Natasha points out. "Steve is in a coma, remember?"

"So Steve is the only one who could call the Soldier off?" Sam asks. "Give him the order to stand down?"

"Most likely, yes," Natasha says with a nod and a sympathetic smile.

"Great," Sam says, shaking his head. "I can only hold him for so long, guys." His head is already starting to pond, although that may be more from the strangulation than the telekinesis. However, it really isn't helping that the Winter Soldier is fighting Sam's hold with all of his might, his gaze cold as ice and never once breaking away from Sam. When Sam sidesteps closer to the three Avengers at the door, the Winter Soldier's eyes follow him.

"We might have to wake Steve up," Wilson says hesitantly. "If we do it right, we can probably get him here without panicking him."

"But what if we can't?" Natasha asks. "The bullet is still in his chest, we can't risk him jostling it. And Steve may be cool-headed in most situations, but we all know how he reacts when Barnes is involved." The three Avengers fall silent at that remark and Sam recalls what Bucky told him in passing about the Avengers' so-called Civil War—and Steve's pivotal role in starting it.

Then, Sam remembers what Bucky told him on the roof about what he saw in Sam—about Sam's strength, his character, his nickname—and an idea begins to take shape in Sam's mind.

"When Steve gave Bucky an order, what did he say?" Sam asks. "Did he call him Bucky, the Winter Soldier, just Soldier, or something else?"

"Bucky, at first, then Soldier after realized what was going on," Wilson says. "The Winter Soldier usually responded to any order Steve gave, regardless of how he was addressed."

"Okay, good," Sam says, turning to the still-frozen Winter Soldier, who glares back silently—it crosses Sam's mind then that the Soldier has yet to say a word. "Bucky, stand down." Sam orders, dropping his hand to his side as he speaks. The Winter Soldier is on his feet in an instant, marching toward Sam with his metal arm raised. Sam holds his ground, his eyes flaring a bright yellow. "Soldier,  _stand down._ " Sam adds an extra layer of ice to his voice as he stares the approaching assassin down, unyielding. To Sam's relief—and the immense surprise of the three Avengers in the doorway—the Winter Soldier stops in his tracks, lowering his hand and staring blankly at Sam with no hint of the earlier rage present is his expression.

"You're a handler?" Tony asks, shocked.

"How did you know?" Natasha adds, crossing her arms and finally venturing further into the room.

"I didn't," Sam admits, biting the inside of his cheek. "Not for sure. I was prepared to freeze him again if I had to, but I needed to try." Sam nods to the Soldier, frowning and knawing on his cheek as his eyes fade back to hazel. "I ended up on the roof deck the night I got back after Steve was shot. I had a nightmare, needed the fresh air. I found Bucky there, looking out at the city, and we talked for a while. I asked him why he started calling me 'kid,' and he said that I reminded of Steve. I had no idea if the Winter Soldier would see the same connection bucky did, much less if he would code me in as a handler. But I figured it couldn't hurt to try."

"It's a good thing you did, or we'd be here for a while." Tony says with a sharp shake of his head.

"What do we do now?" Sam asks. "The Soldier is still just going to stand here until Bucky takes back control."

"Tell him to go to bed." Natasha says. "He doesn't sleep much when he's in Winter Soldier mode, but the rest of us still do. We can figure out our next step in the morning." The three Avengers leave one by one, aware that nothing more can be achieved at 11 at night. Natasha is the first to go, followed shortly by Tony, who is pulling out his phone on the way out—Sam wouldn't be surprised to find come morning that Tony was making calls all night. Wilson hangs behind for a moment, offering Sam a hesitant smile and bidding him a good night before he too disappears down the hall, back to the elevator and to his own room.

As for Sam, he doesn't even try to sleep again that night. He knows that the nightmares won't leave him be, not today, and so he sits on the edge of his bed, losing himself in his thoughts as the Winter Soldier looks on in silence. 

* * *

 

The morning, to Sam's surprise, brings news. The sun has barely begun to rise in the east when Tony enters the room, apparently unsurprised to find Sam awake and alert.

"I spoke to Dr. Williams last night, and she agreed that our best path of action is to do the surgery." Tony says, eyeing the statuesque Winter Soldier apprehensively. "I contacted the best cardiac surgeon in the world and Cap went under as soon as the quinjet landed."

"How long ago was this?" Sam asks, and Tony smiles—it's bright but tired, and Sam doubts the genius slept at all the night before, either.

"Our friendly surgeon was in Virginia last night, so he arrived at around 2 in the morning." Tony explains. "He said the surgery should take 4 hours, max."

"And it's been five." Sam replies, glancing at the clock on his nightstand. "Adding in the hour or so it will take for the anesthesia to wear off, Steve should be waking up any minute now."

"Exactly." Tony says, gesturing to the door. "I wanted you and Barnes to be there when he does. Mabe between the two of you, you can put the Winter Soldier back in the box."

"Sounds like a plan." Sam agrees, standing and turning to the Soldier. "Soldier, follow me." Sam says, and when he heads for the door the Soldier trails behind. He's moving stiffly, almost robotically, and Sam wonders where the grace of the assassin hides—perhaps that's the part of the Winter Soldier that the Wakandans successfully removed, or perhaps it's Bucky himself who supplies the talent. Sam figures the latter—he knows from personal experience that the grace of a killer is not a natural skill, but it has to be learned, not forced.

"Sir, Captain Rogers is showing signs of waking." JARVIS says as Sam, Tony, and the Soldier enter the elevator. As soon as they reach the medical floor, Sam heads down the hall, stepping into Steve's room just as Steve groans, shaking his head against the pillow and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Dim the lights, JARVIS." Sam whispers, and the lights in the room are lowered as the Winter Soldier enters. Tony follows but stops in the doorway, making brief eye contact with Sam and nodding once before stepping away and closing the door behind him.

"Ugh." Steve groans, lifting his left arm only to stop suddenly, likely when he feels the pull of the stitches. "What the hell?" He questions mostly to himself, opening his eyes and looking down at the bandages wrapped around his chest. Sam watches quietly as Steve's eyes sweep the room and he shakes his head, clearly recognizing his surroundings. "That explains the headache."

"Anaesthesia can do that." Sam says, drawing Steve's eyes to him. "So can nearly dying."

"What happened?" Steve asks, eyeing Bucky and frowning. "Is he..."

"Not home at the moment." Sam says when Steve trails off, shaking his head. "You, my friend, have had a very exciting 24 hours."

"I remember... sparring Natasha." Steve says slowly, gathering his thoughts. "Pain in my chest. Then nothing."

"The bullet dislodged from your spine and traveled through your chest cavity." Sam says. "It was dangerously close to your heart, and every time you so much as fidgeted it shifted closer. You were drugged into unconsciousness until surgery could be performed."

"And at some point in the middle, the Winter Soldier decided to make an appearance." Steve connects the dots and Sam nods, rubbing the bruises forming on his neck.

"The Soldier decided I was the one responsible for your injuries and tried to strangle me in my sleep." Sam explains when Steve's questioning gaze lands on his throat. "We got him off of me, discovered I was a handler, and then the surgery was performed. Tony wanted him here when you woke up. Hoped maybe it would help Bucky get his feet back under him."

"Maybe." Steve says, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. He's never..."

"Been violent. I know." Sam finishes Steve's thoughts. "Don't worry about it. Believe it or not, this is not the first time I've been strangled. Far from it, actually."

"Every time we talk, I learn something new about you that I wish I hadn't." Steve says with an attempt at a halfhearted, breathy laugh that comes out more like a huff. "I've never tried to intentionally break Bucky out before. Or at least, it's never worked."

"Maybe with two of us we'll have better luck." Sam suggests.

"Maybe." Steve says, his tone implying that he doesn't agree. Sam really doesn't, either.

In the end, it takes six hours for Bucky to take back control. No amount of coddling or encouraging from Steve or Sam seems to make much of a difference, and by the time Bucky breaks back through, all three men are so exhausted that they decide to call it a day. Steve falls asleep in his hospital bed and Bucky curls up on the sofa in the corner. Sam teleports back to his room and is out cold before his head even hits the pillow.

In Sam's dreams, he sees the Judge in the park, and the killer only says one single word as he levels his gun with Sam's head and pulls the trigger.

_"Soon."_


	36. Chapter 36

Soon, as it turns out, comes less than a week later. As the days pass, Sam's visions only increase in number and intensity, breaking out of his dreams and into the daylight hours. After he collapses at dinner the day Steve is released from the medical floor, Sam is forced to come clean about the visions—both their existence and the details, or lack thereof, that puzzle Sam day and night.

The Avengers are just as confused as Sam is to discover that something is blocking his visions, that something is keeping him from knowing who the Judge really is. But they're more concerned about the encounter Sam is seeing—about the gun that goes off at the end of every vision, about the bullet that drills a hole through Sam's forehead every night.

For six days, Sam's visions run to completion, beginning with the solemn walk down a dark Manhattan street and ending with the Judge firing a gun in Sam's face. But in the early hours of the morning on December 7, Sam's vision breaks off when the Judge removes his hood—not because the vision has ended but because there's someone in Sam's bedroom, standing at the foot of his bed.

Recalling his last unexpected nighttime visitor, Sam is on his feet in an instant, eyes turning yellow and one hand raised protectively in front of him, palm out.

"Sam," Bruce says calmly, patiently, waiting until Sam has lowered his hand to his side to step forward.

"Bruce?" Sam asks, confused and slightly disoriented. "What's going on?" Seeing Bruce in Sam's room is odd enough, especially at this hour—according to the clock on Sam's nightstand, it's 2 am—but Bruce's expression of hesitancy and worry only adds to Sam's confusion.

"There was an attack," Bruce says, his mouth forming into a tight frown. "At the prison. Dean was injured." Sam's yellow eyes flicker, brightening for a moment then quickly going out as Sam gets a handle on his emotions.

"What happened?" Sam asks, taking care to keep his voice calm and steady—his brother was hurt, but he can't get emotional, not until he knows the full story. Not until Bruce isn't the only other person in the room. "Is he okay?"

"Most of the details are still unknown, but Tony was called fifteen minutes ago by one of the FBI agents on your case," Bruce says. "A guard on his rounds heard Dean calling for help and found him severely beaten in his cell. He was taken to the hospital."

"I have to see him," Sam says, setting his jaw. He heads for the door only to be stopped in his tracks when Bruce steps directly in his path.

"Tony and Steve want to wait until we get the full story," Bruce explains. "The rest of us agree. You could be in massive danger, Sam. We still don't know if this was an attack against Dean or an attack against you." Sam hesitates but eventually nods, all too aware that even if he wanted to teleport right to Dean's side, Bruce didn't specify precisely what hospital Dean was taken to—an oversight that was surely intentional, if not on Bruce's part then on one of the other Avenger's.

Bruce stands silently for a minute while Sam absorbs, images of Dean bloody and broken spiraling through his mind like a tornado. Sam allows himself to worry for only a brief moment, locking his feelings tightly at the back of his mind the second he feels his control slip. He can't afford to lose himself. Not now.

Once Sam has regained his composure, he looks up at Bruce and nods with steel in his gaze. Bruce gently suggests that they head together to the communal lounge, where Tony is likely still on the phone with either one of Sam's lawyers, one of his own, or someone in law enforcement.

When Bruce and Sam step out of the elevator, Sam is surprised to find more than just Tony in the lounge. Tony is, as expected, yelling into his phone—by his words, Sam is pretty sure he's talking to someone at the FBI—but at his side, Natasha is doing the same, her voice cold and her words sharp as she reprimands someone named Fury. At the bar, Steve and Clint are conversing more quietly, and as Sam approaches the pair, he realizes that they're discussing how best to protect Sam should Dean's attacker strike at the tower next.

Sam is forced to a stop by what feels like a punch to his gut, the air forced out of his lungs as he finally acknowledges a fact that has been present consistently at the back of his mind for the past two months.

As Tony tells someone to post two of his own personal guards outside Dean's room and run a background check on his doctor and Steve suggests that a couple of Avengers accompany Sam for the next few days, Sam realizes that the people standing around him right now really do care what happens to him. They care enough to drop everything at 2 in the morning to help Sam—and more than that, to help  _Dean_.

Sam knows that Tony's recommendation to post guards outside Dean's door isn't coming from a place of love for Dean but for Sam, but that doesn't mean that Sam doesn't feel the impact. The Avengers are doing what they can to help a notorious killer that none of them, other than Steve, have ever even met. And they're doing it because they know how important Dean is to Sam.

The Avengers' willingness to go out of their way to help the Winchester brothers is something that Sam honestly never thought he would experience again.

Before Sam has time to think any more on the subject, the door to the private back hallway opens, and Matt walks into the room, drawing all eyes to him. He's dressed in his full Daredevil gear, his cowl tucked under one arm and his hair plastered to his head by sweat.

"It was the Judge," Matt says grimly, walking over to the couch near where Sam is standing and shaking his head as he sits down hard, clearly exhausted. "Dean has a concussion but he's woken up a couple of times already, and he was clear-headed enough to identify his attackers. It was four inmates imprisoned on assault charges, all known associates of the Judge."

"Marcus Little and Lenny Grant were two of the attackers," Tony adds with a hint of worry in his tone, looking up from the report on his phone that was likely sent by the FBI to meet Sam's eye. Sam has no idea how Matt got the same information so quickly or why he's suited out, but Sam also knows that there are more important things to worry about—namely, the involvement of Little and Grant. Marcus Little and Lenny Grant are the real names of the two men Sam nicknamed Tweedledee and Tweedledum, who were both arrested shortly after they nearly killed Natasha at the Judge's orders. Sam had no idea that the two had been convicted—the fact that it happened so quickly and under the radar likely had something to do with Tony—much less sent to the same prison where Dean is currently jailed.

And of course, the fact that the involvement of Sam's least favorite duo means the Judge was almost certainly responsible for the attack is far from good news.

Little and Grant were arrested while working for the original Judge, but there's no doubt in Sam's mind that this attack was directed by the new one. So who's really in charge?

And has there ever actually been more than one Judge in New York City?

"We have to find the Judge as soon as possible." Steve is saying when Sam tunes back in to the conversation, his head still spinning. "He knows Sam's identity, and he's already proven that he can get in and out of Avengers Tower without incident."

"And with this attack on Dean, he's also proven that he has massive reach." Natasha points out. "Imprisoning won't stop him. That's what he's telling us now."

"When can I see him?" Sam butts in before anyone has time to respond to Natasha's worrying point. "When can I see Dean?" The question is directed at Matt, but it's Tony who steps forward, phone in hand.

"According to the FBI, tomorrow morning," Tony says. "Or later this morning, I guess."

"Dean is in stable condition, he's a bit banged up, but he should be fine," Matt adds. "The FBI wants you to be able to see Dean without breaking hospital rules, but they also want to minimize potential casualties should the Judge stage another attack. The exact time is still unknown. Of course, all of this assumes that you'll be accompanied by a guard or two."

"Well, that shouldn't be too much of a problem," Natasha says with a smirk. "I don't think any of us are planning on letting Sam out of our sight until the Judge is off the streets of Manhattan."

"I can get you and a couple of Avengers on the road within the hour," Tony says with a nod in Sam's direction, putting his phone up to his ear as he speaks—likely to organize exactly that. "So, Sasquatch, who's it gonna be?"

* * *

 

As soon as the clock hits 6 am—the time decided on by the FBI to both allow Sam visitation and mitigate the potential risks—Sam is walking through the back doors of the prison wing of a hospital just a few miles away from the prison. Sam's hands are cuffed in front of him, and his two selected Avengers guards are walking on either side, each eyeing a different side of every hallway that they pass. It's obvious which room in the wing houses Dean because there are two Stark Industries security guards standing outside the door, their postures stiff and their eyes fixed straight ahead as they expressly ignore the curious looks they're receiving from nurses and patients alike. The Avengers and the FBI agreed that it was in everyone's best interest to only allow one thoroughly vetted doctor to see Dean, and as such most of the hospital has been left almost entirely in the dark as to their mysterious guest.

The nurses and patients only get more curious when they see Sam and his entourage heading for Dean's room, all three wearing masks of cold marble that hide any emotions they may be feeling—in Sam's case, immense worry about his brother's state. As soon as Natasha meets the eyes of the guards, they step aside, allowing the trio to enter Dean's room. The second the door has closed behind them, Natasha produces the key to the handcuffs and releases Sam's wrists, pocketing the steel bracelets.

Dean's eyes are closed when Sam and his friends enter the room, but there's a ghost of a smile on his face and Sam knows that his brother is wide awake.

"Dean, meet Natasha Romanoff and Bucky Barnes." Sam introduces, wearing a smile all his own as, predictably, Dean's eyes fly open. Sam was shocked when Bucky volunteered to come with him—as far as Sam is aware, Bucky hasn't actually left Avengers Tower since he first arrived there months before Sam did. But nonetheless, Sam wanted Bucky to be at his side, even though he knew better than to ask—and he didn't even have to, because as soon as Bucky was informed of the situation, he said he was going and everyone knew better than to argue.

"Romanoff, eh?" Dean says, surprised by Sam's guards for an entirely different reason. He grins flirtatiously at Natasha and Sam sighs dramatically, watching as Natasha simply shakes her head. Sam takes advantage of Dean's momentary distraction to give his brother a once-over, cataloging his numerous fresh injuries—and noting a few that are days or weeks old—and weighing them against previous experiences. Dean has a black eye, a split lip, and a million bruises—and he also has a new scar on his right lower arm that is far too healed to be from this particular attack, which Sam is going to have to ask him about at some point—but Sam eventually decides that, despite the circumstances, Dean is probably no worse for wear.

"So, you seem to have caught the eye of my latest nemesis," Sam says conversationally as he takes a seat in the chair at his brother's right side. Bucky takes this as his cue to walk over to the window, planting himself directly between the shuttered window and the door to the bathroom. Natasha remains by the door to the hallway, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall.

"Ah, so those assholes were friends of the Judge?" Dean asks, and Sam nods. "Well, they didn't deliver a message or anything, in case you were wondering. Too busy whaling on me to deliver a monologue." Sam frowns at this, looking down at his hands—an action Dean is quick to notice and correctly interpret. "Sam, don't you dare blame this on yourself," Dean says, and when Sam looks back up, he finds a warning glare being sent in his direction. "I know you love taking the blame, but man, you did nothing wrong here. I'm gonna be fine, first of all. Second of all, we still don't even know what this guy's problem is. Just because he hates you doesn't mean you actually did anything to make him."

"He knows that I'm Darkside," Sam says, an admission that startles both Natasha and Bucky—Sam honestly forgot that no one other than Steve knows that Dean knows about Darkside. "Natasha and Bucky are mostly here because the Judge has already broken into Avengers Tower once before, and the Avengers are worried that he'll try again."

"I'm sure they're also worried that I was attacked to draw you out." Dean comments, punctuating his words with a sharp shake of his head. "Sam, this guy could ruin everything you've built. You're sure that he knows who you are?"

"I mean, not 100 percent, but sure enough," Sam says, recalling his recurring vision on the subject—while Sam is dressed in plainclothes in his vision, his intuition tells him that if he were wearing his mask, the scene would play out the same way. "I, uh, I've been having visions." Natasha and Bucky exchange a look, but Dean just shakes his head slowly, his face paling a few shades as he examines Sam with new eyes.

"Visions? Again?" He asks, his tone a cross between confusion and worry. "Are they bad? Are they hurting you?" Natasha and Bucky both turn their attention to Sam at this but he's quick to shake his head—this time around, the headaches appear to be absent, or at the very least Sam is sucked into his visions too fast to feel them. However, even thinking about the time when each vision was accompanied by a chisel splitting his skull is enough to bring back echoes of the feeling, and Sam pinches his forehead just above his nose in an automatic attempt to stop the memories of pain.

"I see the Judge," Sam explains. "In a park, I'm thinking somewhere in Manhattan. And he pulls a gun out and shoots me between the eyes, and I wake up." Sam doesn't mention the Judge's words to him before the gun goes off—they tend to vary slightly between visions, so Sam doubts that the final encounter will involve the same phrases as the visions.

"That's it?" Dean asks. "You get shot, and it's game over?" Sam nods, and Dean frowns deeply, his forehead furrowing. "I'm guessing you can't see his face if you still don't know who he is."

"That's the thing," Sam says urgently. "I  _should_ be able to, but I still can't. It's not a face, just... shadows. Like, even in my vision, I don't know who he is."

"That's not good," Dean says, turning to look Sam directly in the eye. "He knows exactly who you are and you don't know the first thing about him. You do know what has to be done."

"What?" Sam asks, even though he's pretty sure he already knows what Dean is going to say next.

"You have to silence him. Permanently." Dean's words are spoken emotionlessly, but there's a worry in his eyes, slipping through the cracks of his stony gaze.

"We can't kill him, Dean." Sam protests immediately, unwilling to look at Natasha and Bucky for fear of their reactions—they don't know Dean like Sam does, don't know that a suggestion like this is way out of the norm for him. "He's a bad person, yeah, but he's still a  _person_."

"He's got friends, Sam, friends in very high places," Dean says. "You and I both know perfectly well that if you've got enough friends, nothing can stop you. Nothing can hold you. I mean, look at us." Dean gestures dramatically to the space between him and Sam.

"You're in prison, Dean." Sam comments, a slight smile forming on his face despite his best efforts—which is probably exactly what Dean was going for.

"Only because I want to be," Dean replies with a grin on his face that fades away after a short moment. "I'm serious, Sam." He says grimly. "People like this don't just quit when they're knocked down. If you try to put him in handcuffs, he'll start singing like a canary the second the metal touches his wrist. He'll scream your name at everyone willing to listen. And then every baddie on the planet, monster and human alike, will come after you."

"I can't kill him," Sam says. "I can't, Dean."

"Then get someone else to pull the trigger," Dean replies, angling his head in Bucky's direction, then in Natasha's. "Like maybe one of these assassins you've befriended. If I weren't already in prison for murder, I'd do it myself. Better than watching you get shot in the head on TV the next day."

"There has to be another way," Sam says, setting his jaw. "There's always another way, Dean, and I'm going to find it." The grin that forms on Dean's face suggests that his advice was never meant to be taken literally.

"I know you will, Sam," Dean says, his smile less snarky and more proud. "But regardless of what happens, just know that I'll be watching, and I'll be on your side every step of the way."

"We've got to go," Natasha speaks up suddenly, her voice clipped but slightly frantic as she looks up from her phone. "I just got word from Stark that there's been a breach at the tower." She tosses Sam the handcuffs, and he immediately begins to put them on, flinching instinctively away from the cold metal even as he locks it around his wrists.

"Ooh, nice bracelets you've got there," Dean says, plastering a cheeky grin on his face as he lifts his left hand, rattling the handcuff attaching him to the bedrail. "They're popular this season." Sam laughs despite himself, and Dean's smile turns a lot more genuine. Sam stands and walks over to Natasha and Bucky, and the pair of Avengers immediately begin to usher him toward the door.  "Hey, Sammy?" Dean calls out at the last second, and Sam stops in his tracks, turning to face his brother. "Be careful, alright? Don't make me lose you twice in one year."

"Only if you're careful, too," Sam replies. "I don't want to lose you either." Dean nods, that easy grin returning to his face as Bucky ushers Sam out of the room, past the two guards and down the hallway to the exit. Natasha is explaining what happened at the tower—it appears to be another harmless breach that just serves to prove that the Judge has access—but her words fade to the background as Sam's attention shifts back to Dean's advice.

Sam doesn't want anyone to die. The Judge may want Sam dead, but he isn't a monster. As far as Sam knows, the Judge is a human being, and excluding his time without a soul, Sam has never intentionally killed a human being. He definitely doesn't want to start now. Not when the eyes of the world are on him.

But with the vision of a bullet buried between Sam's eyes playing like a broken record in his mind, Sam can't help but wonder if he's going to have a choice.

And as he walks out the hospital with handcuffs around his wrists and two Avengers at his sides, Sam questions if, should worst come to worst, he'll even be able to pull the trigger.


	37. Chapter 37

When the elevator doors open into the communal lounge, Sam is hit full force by the overwhelming smell of maple syrup.

The scent is so unexpected that it stops Sam in his tracks, worrying Natasha and Bucky, who both instinctively enter fighting stances. It isn't until Tony walks over and offers Sam a plate of pancakes—covered with enough maple syrup to fill a bathtub—that Sam is able to shake free of his surprise, accepting the plate with a cautious smile on his face.

"That was... unexpected," Bucky comments mostly to himself as Steve and Clint offer stacks of pancakes to Bucky and Natasha, respectively. The three newcomers head to the table, where they find Bruce eating a few pancakes of his own. When Sam sends a questioning look in Bruce's direction, Bruce just smiles, taking a sip of what Sam assumes—based on the smell—to be hot chocolate before he replies.

"Steve is worried," Bruce says quietly, and the lackluster explanation must be enough for Bucky and Natasha because they both dig in without another word. Sam, on the other hand, is still extremely confused, and when Tony and Clint join the rest of the team at the table—Steve is still in the kitchen—Sam voices his confusion out loud.

"Cap stress cooks," Tony explains with a grin. "This whole situation with the Judge has made him pretty anxious, it seems."

"He isn't the only one," Clint adds, leaning forward eagerly as Steve finally joins the rest of the team at the table, carrying a plate of pancakes stacked twice as high as Sam's. "This whole thing has got all of us on edge. So, how's Dean?"

"He's alright," Sam says with a shake of his head. "A bit beat up, yeah, but he's had a lot worse. This attack clearly wasn't meant to kill Dean. Just to send a message."

"And Dean had a message of his own," Natasha speaks up, drawing all eyes—Sam's included—to her. "He had an interesting idea about how to deal with the Judge." She pauses, leveling her gaze on Steve. "Kill him." Natasha delivers the news flatly, but it has an immediate effect on the rest of the room. Clint nods, his gaze hardening, but he appears to be the only one who accepts Dean's suggestion—Tony, Steve, and Bruce all have varying degrees of shock in their expressions and none of the three looks particularly keen on the idea.

"The Judge is a human being." Steve is the first to voice his protests, shaking his head vehemently. "He doesn't deserve to die."

"No, he doesn't," Bucky says patiently, staring his closest friend down. "But neither does Sam, and right now, it looks like that's how all of this is going to end."

"Besides, we can't ethically keep the Judge on the Raft," Natasha adds.

"Norman Whitmore is on the Raft," Bruce replies.

"Norman Whitmore is a demon." Clint is the one who speaks up this time, shaking his head. "Holding him isn't inhumane because he isn't  _human_. But we can't keep the Judge locked down in a normal prison, not with his level of influence, and holding him on the Raft goes against everything we stand for."

"So does killing him," Tony says. "There has to be another way."

"There will be," Sam says, setting his jaw. "That's what I told Dean earlier, and I truly believe it. There have been a million times in my life when I could have gone with the easiest option. A million times I could have pulled the trigger and called it a day. But if I had, I would be dead. Dean would be dead. Hell, most of the planet would be dead." Sam's words have the intended effect—the Avengers fall silent, all arguments derailed by Sam's short speech.

Now, it's time for them to get back on the right track.

"There is  _always_ another way," Sam says, turning his attention to Bucky—who has supported Sam since the very beginning—and Natasha—who knows exactly how Dean thinks because she thinks the same way. "Dean didn't tell me to kill the Judge because he thought it was our best option. He told me because he knew it would force me to think of a better one."

"Well, what's the plan?" Natasha asks with a short nod to acknowledge Sam's point. "That vision of yours is going to happen for real one day. We need to be prepared for it."

"Then let's get started." Steve agrees, clasping his hands together and setting them down on the table. "Any ideas?"

For the next three hours, plan after plan is raised by one Avenger and shot down by another. No matter what they come up with, someone manages to find a flaw. Sam may end up dead, killing the Judge, or watching hopelessly as an Avenger is felled by a bullet they can't get back up from—but whether it happens in the park or years down the line, every plan eventually ends in failure.

Plates of breakfast are abandoned as the conversation moves from the table to the couches. Everyone quickly grows harried—while most of the Avengers are seated, Tony is pacing aggressively behind one couch, and Sam is standing stock still beside another, staring intently at the wall but listening carefully to every suggestion.

Sam contributes at first, offering a few flawed ideas of his own, but as the minutes begin to add up, pressure starts to build behind Sam's eyes. He disregards it at first, assuming the oncoming headache to be a result of stress—today has, after all, been incredibly stressful—and it isn't until Natasha draws everyone's attention back to Sam's recurring visions that Sam realizes what his headache actually means.

By then, it's far too late, and Sam only has time to utter a quick warning before he's standing somewhere else entirely.

_The bite of the wind pushes Sam forward, and he walks down the street, his path chosen by the wind at his back and the part of his mind that inexplicably knows precisely where he's going. Manhattan is a city that never sleeps, but tonight the city is silent, the windows dark and the streets void of people and traffic alike. Sam looks around as he walks, finding no one—and yet, despite that fact, it feels like there are a million eyes on him, watching his every move._

_When Sam turns the corner, he finds himself standing in front of a familiar park, and it's then that he realizes that not only is the city silent, it's dark. No lights are twinkling in any windows, no stars in the cloudy sky. The moon peeks through a break in the dark clouds for a brief moment, a crescent in the air, offering little light. In the park, a single streetlamp shines brightly, casting long, dark, shadows across the frosty grass._

_It's here that Sam heads when he steps into the park. He stops directly beneath the lamp, but he finds no warmth in its glow._

_Soundless footsteps draw Sam's eye to the other side of the park, and the Judge approaches slowly, his head bowed and covered, and Sam holds his ground. When the Judge stops across from Sam, he looks up and smiles—and Sam can't see his face, but he can see his smile, the teeth that shine white in the lamplight and the lips that curl into a sneer._

_It's a smile that is strikingly familiar to Sam, but his memories are unreachable, lost in the swirling void of the snow and the wind._

_It wasn't snowing when Sam first began his walk, but white crystals float through the air now, pieces of ash clinging to Sam like the nightmares he's never been able to shake. It coats his hair, his hands, his face, and Sam finds himself momentarily distracted by a single flake that lands on the tip of his nose, perfectly pristine for a brief moment before it melts away into nothing._

_If the Judge says anything as he raises his gun and points it at Sam's head, his words are carried away by the wind._

_Sam is similarly quiet as the bullet digs a hole directly between his eyes and he falls backward into the snow._

When Sam sits up with a gasp and his eyes fly open, he finds the Avengers standing in a circle around him. Bucky is kneeling at Sam's left side, and when Sam begins to struggle to his feet, Bucky is quick to offer his assistance.

"Are you alright?" Steve is asking, but Sam ignores the Avengers' worry in favor of the critical realization his most potent vision yet has offered him.

A single snowflake on the tip of Sam's nose doesn't mean much—unless Sam is supposed to be wearing a mask.

"It's Darkside," Sam says, his voice still a little bit shaky but his resolve steady. Bucky helps Sam sit down on the couch, and the rest of the Avengers follow suit, taking their seats around the room.

"What's Darkside?" Tony asks, and Sam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and pinching the bridge of his nose to hinder the residuals of the headache.

"The reason our plans aren't working. Are never going to work." Sam says. "None of these plans will ever succeed because they all have Darkside in them. We've been trying this whole time to include Darkside in the fight, but that will never work because that's exactly what the Judge is expecting. He  _wants_ Darkside. He wants to expose me to the world. But in every single vision I've had, every single time that I meet the Judge in that park, I'm not wearing a mask."

"What are you suggesting?" Steve asks hesitantly, and Sam smiles weakly.

"Darkside can't be a part of this takedown. It has to be Sam Winchester." Sam flinches away from his own words but regains his composure quickly. "My visions are a glimpse of the future. Sometimes, they show me a path that has been set in stone, an event that I'll never be able to change. After the bank shooting, I'm pretty sure I had a brief vision of Steve getting shot." Sam pauses, shaking his head. "But more often than not, these visions help me change fate." Sam swallows hard, gripping the back of the couch as tightly as he dares.

To make the Avengers understand what they need to do, he has to tell them something that he hasn't shared with any of his friends in Manhattan.

"I had a powerful recurring vision, similar to this one, when I first arrived in Hell's Kitchen," Sam explains. "It showed me the bank robbery that would eventually take place months later. I watched a little girl be shot in the back and fall into her father's arms, over and over again." Sam shakes his head. "That day, in that bank, with that robber staring me down, I already knew what was going to happen. I stopped that first bullet, saved that little girl's life, but stopping the events of the vision from transpiring changed what happened next. And I ended up taking a bullet to the chest that very nearly killed me."

"So what you're saying is, the vision is giving you the chance to change what happens, but if we alter the events you've seen, there's no telling what the end result will be," Tony says, and Sam nods.

"If I let that vision play out exactly the way I've seen it, I'll end up with a bullet in my head. There's no doubt about that." Sam says grimly. "But if I walk into that park wearing a mask, I might die before I even see the Judge coming. If I avoid the park entirely, I could be hit by a car, or Avengers Tower could burn to the ground, or the Judge could break into the prison and shoot Dean in the chest." Sam looks up, meeting Tony's eyes. "The only advantage we have right now is my vision, and we have to use it. The more details we keep the same, the more we know about what will happen next."

"And the more likely you are to get shot in the face," Clint adds, and Sam nods—that is, of course, the part of the vision they don't want coming to fruition. But as he considers the small, seemingly arbitrary details of his repeated visions—the quiet, empty street, the eyes watching his every move, the single lit streetlamp—Sam realizes that he knows whatever plan he and the Avengers come up with will work.

Because in his vision, it almost did.

Sam saw himself get shot in the bank shooting before it ever happened. He thought he changed things when he saved that girl, but did he really? Maybe the bullet in his chest was never going to be avoided. Sam was still shot in the chest, fell unconscious. But he didn't die. And maybe he was never going to. His vision ended before he saw the full story.

Sam's visions are flawed because they only come from his point of view. They only show him what he already knows, what he'll know in the moment. It's why he walks to the park without incident despite never traversing that path before, but he can never see the Judge's face. When that day finally comes, Sam will know exactly where he's going because he's walked that road a thousand times before, but he won't know what to expect when he sees the Judge's face because he's never seen it before.

And that bullet going into his forehead may not be the full story. It may not be as deadly—or at the very least, as permanent—as it appears through Sam's eyes.

"If we change one little thing, everything else will change," Sam says. "If you step on a butterfly, you change the course of the next thousand years. The key is finding the right butterfly." The Avengers are silent, watching as Sam thinks, replaying his most recent vision and paying close attention to even the most minor details. "We don't have to alter the beginning of my vision, but we can easily change the end. And we can make a plan that works, because my vision has already told me exactly where to start. I know where the plan goes wrong. We just have to figure out how to fix it." One more thought crosses Sam's mind—one more detail from his vision related not to the Avengers' plan but to the timing of it—and he looks up at the ceiling, at the speaker where he first heard JARVIS's voice back when Sam Winchester was still dead and Darkside was still just a local vigilante.

A lot of things have changed since then, but a lot has stayed the same.

"JARVIS, when is the moon next going to be a crescent on the... right side?" Sam asks, searching his memory for any knowledge of the moon phases and coming up blank.

"The moon will be in a waxing crescent from December 9 through December 13," JARVIS says, and Sam swallows hard.

"Assuming that the Judge's attack on Dean last night means that his endgame is coming soon, we don't have much time." Sam addresses the room as a whole. "There's a crescent moon in the sky in my vision. And the crescent moon rises in two days."

"Well, then we'd better get this plan figured out," Steve says, determination building on his face and in his posture as he straightens, crossing his arms. "So, Sam, tell us exactly what you saw. And make sure you don't leave anything out." Sam nods, replaying his vision in his own mind one last time before he begins to describe it to the Avengers.

If they do this right, if every detail goes according to plan and every piece falls perfectly into place, the Judge might be in handcuffs by the end of the week.

And maybe, just maybe, Sam won't end up six feet under come December 14.


	38. Chapter 38

Late at night on December 13, Sam Winchester walks slowly down a dark Manhattan street. He's wearing a plaid flannel over his t-shirt that does little to keep out the cold, ad his jeans stick to his legs with every step, cemented to his skin by sheets of frost formed out of his sweat. It's below freezing in New York, but Sam is wearing nothing to fight the cold—no jacket, no gloves, no scarf wrapped around his face. His face is exposed to the biting wind, but he doesn't mind.

This is how it was always supposed to be.

The message was delivered on December 9, an untraceable email sitting in Tony's inbox when he woke that morning. Tony called Sam to his lab, and they opened the letter together, reading the Judge's warning, his offer.

He'll let Dean live if the Avengers deliver Darkside to him by the end of the week.

The 15th is the Judge's imposed deadline but the 13th is the last day of the crescent moon, and so it's tonight that Sam enters the city, tonight that the plan the Avengers have been carefully crafting for five days finally goes into motion.

The city of Manhattan is silent but for the wind that weaves between the buildings and the crunch of frost beneath Sam's feet.

He's following a path he's never before taken, a path he knows like the back of his hand. The wind at his back guides him and the mental map in his mind—the vision that plays over and over again—directs each turn, left, right, left into the heart of the city, into a lonely, frost-covered park.

The park is illuminated by a single street lamp, shining brightly against the white-flecked grass.

The Avengers wanted Sam to wait, until the crescent moon had set, until the Judge's time limit had ended. But when the snow knocked out power to ten blocks of Manhattan that just so happened to have a small park in the middle, Sam knew it was time. Knew it had to be tonight.

Sam stops beneath the streetlamp just as the snow begins to fall, a flurry of white crystals descending from the sky. As a shadowed figure approaches from the other side of the park, a single snowflake lands on the tip of Sam's nose, melting into nothing in an instant.

The Judge stops a few yards away from Sam and looks up, his face concealed by shadow, by a thick winter coat and a deep red scarf that obscures everything but his piercing blue eyes.

The Judge reaches for the gun that Sam knows is waiting at his waist, but Sam shakes his head, clearing his throat.

It's time to change Sam's fate.

"Why do you want Darkside?" Sam asks, nearly shouting to make himself heard over the wind. The Judge pauses, apparently surprised that Sam spoke up at all.

"Where are your friends?" The Judge asks, ignoring Sam's question entirely. "I wouldn't have thought the Avengers would let you out of their sight after the... incident, the other day." Sam bristles at this but quickly fights his emotions back down, reigning in control before his eyes can even so much as flicker. This isn't Darkside's fight. It's Sam's.

It's always been Sam's.

"I came alone," Sam says. "This isn't their fight, and it never was. It was mine. So I'll ask you again. What do you want with Darkside?" This time, the Judge actually falters, and Sam grins. The Judge wants to weaponize Sam's alter ego, but what if Sam simply denies it?

If the  Judge kills Darkside, he can unmask Sam with ease. But if the Judge kills Sam Winchester, he can never prove that Sam and Darkside are one and the same.

"You're right." The Judge finally says. "This isn't their fight. The Avengers know better than to get their hands dirty. They know better than to risk their reputations for the likes of a  _Winchester_."

"Am I supposed to be insulted?" Sam asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the streetlamp to his left. The exact circumstances of his vision have been avoided, but Sam knows better than anyone that Fate doesn't like it when she doesn't get her way. Until the Judge is in handcuffs, the end of Sam's vision might still happen.

"You're scum." The Judge says, stalking closer to Sam and pulling out his gun. Sam doesn't flinch, doesn't react, doesn't even more, simply staring his opponent down. Something tells him that the Judge is just getting started. "You've lived a life of destruction, from the moment of your mother's death 35 years ago. You've destroyed innocent people, you and your brother, innocent lives. Three women in St. Louis. Bank patrons in Baltimore. People enjoying their lunch, people living their lives. You hid away while your brother was arrested, let him carry your blame, pretended to be dead rather than face what you've done. You killed 52 people in Lebanon, Kansas, and no sentence will ever be punishment enough."

"I didn't set that bomb," Sam says, frowning. All of this—all of the Judge's anger, his attacks, his plans—are because of Lebanon? "The court has figured that out. We have proof. It was just shown to the jury earlier this week." Sam missed the footage being shown, missed court entirely for the past four days—after Dean's attack, no one wanted Sam out in public, just in case the Judge arrived to finish the job.

"Everyone always says that they're innocent." The Judge says. "No one is innocent, least of all you. Not of the fifty deaths in Lebanon or the three women or the bank shootings. Not of the deaths of thirteen people in a diner in St. Louis." The specificity of the Judge's final example gives Sam pause, but he has no time to dwell on it further because the Judge's next words halt Sam's train of thought entirely.

"If only the cops had done their job and shot you dead the second they found you in that alley, none of this would have had to happen." The Judge says, and Sam watches, frozen in shock, as the Judge pulls down his hood to reveal a head of bright red hair.

"You?" Sam asks in disbelief, staring at the man he once dubbed Red, months ago in a dirty alley. " _You're_ the Judge?" Sam never would have imagined that he had encountered the Judge unmasked, that the attack that led to Sam's arrest was the beginning of all of this—both of the trial and of the Judge's revenge. But as the Judge unwraps the scarf and drops the ends against his chest, the all too familiar smile he sends Sam's way cements the truth in Sam's mind, and every detail begins to slot into place.

Marcus Little and Lenny Grant were never working for the man Sam thought of as the original Judge. Their orders have always come from Red, from that first assault in the alley to the attack on Dean at the prison.

The Judge had always known that Sam and Darkside were one and the same, right from the beginning—from when Red attacked Sam Winchester for an attack perpetrated by Darkside.

"Who was Damien Lawson?" Sam asks, the final piece of the puzzle that still doesn't quite fit. Red smiles that same sinister smile, twisting the gun around in his hand and leveling it at Sam's chest.

"You call me the Judge," Red says, "because I give the death penalty to those who the real judges refused to prosecute. In your terms, that would make Damien Lawson my executioner."

"The man who does your dirty work, carries out the actual murders, until you decide he's more trouble than he's worth." Sam infers, and Red shrugs nonchalantly, as if they're discussing the weather and not a man's death.

"Damien was angry, and that anger was easy to manipulate," Red says. "But he was also sloppy. He let you see his face, shot Captain America, quickly became less of an asset and more of a liability. So I took care of him. If you want something done right, do it yourself."

"Why go through the trouble?" Sam questions next—if Red wants to monologue then Sam isn't going to do anything to stop him. Despite the shock of discovering that the Judge was someone Sam had known of for months, the Avengers' plan is still going strong—and in fact, is working even better than anticipated. "Why plant a fake Judge, why leave me alive that night in the alley?"

"Those other people Damien killed, the justice system had already failed with them," Red says with a sneer. "They were found to be  _innocent_ , ot worse, had their crimes invalidated by a clerical error or some other stupid mistake. But you, you hadn't even gone through the system yet. Your brother was another failure, but you were a second chance. A chance for this disreputable system to prove itself. To take the right action. So I didn't kill you that night. I left you beaten and bloody in that alley, and I gave the police an anonymous tip they had been waiting for since last October. I gave them Sam Winchester. And they gave you a nice hospital bed and treated you like a victim."

"So you send Damien to kill me only for him to be interrupted by the night guard." Sam assumes, and Red nods sharply, practically seething.

"They gave a  _murderer_ a penthouse suite!" Red exclaims, finger twitching on the trigger as he angles it up at Sam's forehead. "I delivered them a killer, and they treated you like a king." Red pauses, drawing in a deep breath. "You made a grave mistake coming here alone tonight,  Winchester," Red says, smiling darkly. "It's time for you to accept your judgement. And for you, it's always going to be death."

"Not quite," Sam says, wearing a grin of his own. "I'm not alone. In fact, thanks to you, I have more friends than I have in a long time." Right on cue, the seemingly empty city comes alive as the Avengers arrive on the scene. Red scowls but keeps the gun raised as Steve, Natasha, and Tony step up to Sam's side, facing down the Judge beside him.

"No one is dying tonight," Tony says. "Sam will be judged by the system. The right way. And if after closing arguments tomorrow, they decide that he isn't guilty, then he isn't guilty."

"The system is flawed," Red says. "Killers go free every day. And then they go out and kill more people."

"Sam is a hero, not a killer," Steve replies. "He has a bigger heart than pretty much anyone else I've ever met."

"Sam Winchester doesn't have a heart," Red says, and Sam watches as Red's finger tightens on the trigger.

"He must have a heart," Natasha says with a smirk. "Because if he didn't, you'd already be dead." This apparently the final straw for Red,  because he lets out an aggravated yell and finally pulls the trigger. Before Sam can even think about moving, Steve is standing in front of him, and the bullet bounces harmlessly off of the metal shield Steve is holding in front of his chest.

"Kill him!" Red shouts and the quiet park suddenly explodes with sound as the gangs that make up Red's small army flood the area.

The Avengers are quick to engage their newfound enemies, but Sam tries his best to avoid joining in, determined to avoid using his abilities—Red has yet to verbally connect Sam and Darkside, so there's no point in Sam accidentally making the connection himself.

A massive man Sam is pretty sure was guarding the alley exit the night of Red's first attack is the person who finally approaches Sam, throwing a fist that Sam quickly ducks to avoid. The man is built like a tank but he moves slowly, and so Sam goes on the defensive, skirting attacks without ever retaliating with any of his own.

After a series of punches that all come from Sam's right, Sam realizes that his attacker is trying to direct him, herding him in one particular direction. Sam tries to duck under the man's arms and avoid being pinned, but a hand grabs the back of his shirt before he has the chance, yanking him roughly backward. Having apparently achieved his goal, the tank grins and turns, heading back to the primary fight and throwing a fist at Natasha.

Sam pulls free of his new opponent and turns to find himself face to face with Red, who smiles and points his gun back at Sam's chest. They're at the very edge of the park, distanced from the rest of the fight, and there's not a doubt in Sam's mind that the movement was intentional. Behind Sam is open air, and across the park, the rest of the Avengers fight, too far away to even realize that Sam is no longer among them. Behind Red is the small park information kiosk, and beyond that is the street and a line of skyscrapers, extending into the horizon.

From here, Sam can see the blue glow of Avengers Tower.

"Now, where were we?" Red asks, finger returning to the trigger. Sam barrels forward, digging his head into Red's stomach and ramming Red into the wall behind him as hard as he can. The gun falls from Red's grasp, and Sam grabs it and tosses it aside, turning his attention back to Red just in time to jump back when Red swipes at him with a knife. Sam raises his arms defensively as Red stalks forward, swiping back and forth with the knife as if cutting through the air. Sam manages to sneak a few counters in, jabbing his elbow into Red's chest on one occasion and landing a kick to Red's left knee on another, but for the most part, he's playing defense, avoiding every sweeping attack. Sam has been forced to back up several feet when Red suddenly lunges forward, forcing Sam to dive to his left. Sam rolls back up to his feet and immediately dodges to the side again to avoid the knife that comes down where his chest was moments before.

The tip of the blade catches Sam's right side, and he grimaces when it slices through his skin, no deeper than a paper cut but painful nonetheless. The successful hit causes Sam to miscalculate his next move, and rather than rolling back up to his feet like he did before, Sam falls hard on his left side. Red comes to a stop in front of Sam and brings the knife down fast, and Sam rolls out of the way at the last second,  kicking out while Red is still adjusting his stance and knocking him to the ground. The knife falls and rather than throw it out of the way, Sam grabs it, wrapping his fingers around the hilt and pointing the blade at Red as Red staggers to his feet. Red backs away immediately but only makes it a few feet before his back slams into the wall of the info kiosk, and Sam steps closer and closer until the tip of the knife is inches from Red's throat.

"Do it," Red says confidently, his grin unwavering despite the circumstances. "Kill me. Be the monster we both know you really are." Sam pauses, then grins, glancing to is left and scanning the darkened windows of the building that overlooks the park. After he finds what he's looking for, Sam points with his free hand, and Red follows Sam gaze. When Red sees the glow of a red light coming from the window Sam pointed out, all of the blood drains from his face.

The city of Manhattan may appear empty, but it isn't. A million eyes are watching Sam's every move through the lens of a camera.

It took Karen three days to organize the coverage, but once Sam identified the park from his vision on the maps Tony offered, and the Avengers figured out which day the final encounter was most likely going to happen, it wasn't hard for Karen to convince some of her cameramen friends to stake out the surrounding buildings and find the best vantage points to film every second of the encounter between Sam and the Judge.

"The difference between a villain and a hero isn't what they do, it's how they do it," Sam says, turning back to the Judge with a smile on his face. "You're right that those people didn't deserve to go free. But they didn't deserve to die, either." Sam takes a few steps back and tosses the knife to the side, smiling solemnly at Red. "You're right that the system is flawed. But murder isn't the way to fix it." Red growls angrily and charges forward, and Sam sidesteps the attack with ease—he wasn't expecting his words to stop Red. Red long ago made up his mind. Unfortunately, Sam isn't expecting Red's arm to shoot out as he flies past and grab Sam's right sleeve, and Red pulls Sam roughly closer and takes them both to the ground. Red manages to get on top of Sam before Sam can recover from the fall, grabbing a handful of Sam's hair and slamming the back of his head into the ground.

Sam is lying in the dirt, but the frozen ground is as hard as concrete and stars explode across Sam's vision upon impact. Sam tries to fight Red off, but he can barely stay conscious, black spots crowding his vision as the world goes off-kilter and starts to spin dizzily.

"I'll be the judge of that," Red says, wrapping his hands around Sam's throat and squeezing tightly. Sam groans, lifting numb arms to bat weakly at Red's hands,  too disoriented to free himself from his attacker's grasp.

What he can do, however, is smile.

"You just made... your last... mistake." Sam forces out, and the Judge's grip tightens as he lifts Sam's head and slams it down once again. Sam groans as the thumbs over his throat dig in deep and the darkness in his vision threatens to overpower him.

Just before he slips away, Sam catches a glimpse of something silver, and then he hears a loud thump.

Red's hands go limp, and his eyes go wide, and when he falls listlessly to the side, obviously already dead, Sam sees the hilt of a knife sticking out of Red's upper back.

Sam looks up and finds Natasha standing in front of him,  a dagger identical to the one in Red's back gripped in her left hand. Sam nods as he pushes himself into a seated position, acknowledging what Natasha did, thanking her, and forgiving her.

When Natasha nods back, Sam knows that she understands that he always knew this was going to be the end. Someone was always going to die tonight. If it wasn't Sam, it had to be the Judge.

It's done.

It doesn't take long for Red's army to realize that he's dead. Most of them take off, and the last stragglers are quick to surrender when Natasha and Sam rejoin the group, and they see the bloody knife in Natasha's right hand and a clearly alive Sam stumbling alongside her, one arm looped around her neck. Once the last of the henchmen have been taken care of, cops and reporters alike swarm the park, the police heading for Red's body and the reporters for Sam.

"Did the Judge try to kill your brother?"

"Why didn't you kill the Judge when you had the chance?"

"How convincing is the proof that you have that you weren't responsible for the Lebanon bombing?"

The questions come from every angle and Sam closes his eyes as his head pounds, every shout hammering another nail into his brain. The Avengers are quick to take notice, and they form a protective circle around Sam, Natasha, and Clint—the two Avengers are standing on either side of Sam and holding him up, and by now they're the only things keeping him from collapsing.

"Do you believe that the Judge's death will harm your trial?" One reporter asks, and Sam lifts his head slowly to meet her eyes. Steve steps forward, nodding politely to the reporter and then sweeping his gaze across the entire trial.

"Sam Winchester did nothing wrong today," Steve says. "He defended himself without taking a single life or causing a single injury, and more importantly, he risked his own life. Sam is the one who chose to come and meet the Judge on his own,  fully aware that there was a significant risk that he would be hurt or even killed. Sam volunteered to risk his wellbeing and put his life on the line to help us stop the Judge's reign of terror." Steve returns his gaze to the reporter and smiles kindly, unaffected by what seems like hundreds of lights flashing in his face. "Tonight, Sam Winchester is a hero."

Steve's statement is met with a thousand more questions, but if he responds to any of them, Sam wouldn't know.

He barely has time to smile before the world veers into darkness and his leg buckles beneath him. Natasha and Clint aren't enough to keep  Sam from falling, but he doesn't feel it—he's unconscious long before he hits the ground.


	39. Chapter 39

Sam wakes up with a start to sunlight filtering through the window and Bucky sitting on the sofa on the left side of the room. Sam tries to sit up only to fall back with a groan, his head pounding with every breath. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, and a moment later he hears the sound of curtains being pulled closed.

When Sam opens his eyes again, the amount of light filtering into the room has been decreased to a bearable level, and Bucky is standing at the side of the bed, frowning down at Sam with concern prevalent in the crease of his brow.

"You alright, kid?" Bucky asks, and Sam lifts one hand to give Bucky a thumbs up rather than nodding.

"I, uh... I didn't dream." Sam says slowly, smiling a bit at that. "No visions, no nightmares, nothing. Just... nothing."

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised, seeing as you've been out for seventeen hours," Bucky says offhandedly. "We were starting to get worried."

"Seventeen?" Sam repeats in disbelief. "Must've been one hell of a concussion."

"It is," Bucky says, nodding. "The Judge did a number on your head in that park."

"He... The Judge is the man who got me arrested." Sam admits. "Who left me for dead in an alleyway and left an anonymous tip to the police about it. He's... He's the one who started all of this." Bucky nods solemnly, apparently already aware of this fact.

"He was identified as Jason Weatherby," Bucky says. "He didn't care about Lebanon, kid, not really." Sam looks up at this, frowning, and Bucky smiles sympathetically. "Weatherby had a little sister, Marie, who was killed in a mass shooting at a diner in St. Louis a few years ago."

"A shooting supposedly carried out by Dean and me on our infamous spree." Sam infers, and Bucky nods.

"He may have cared about justice, but when it came to you and Dean, I doubt Weatherby was ever planning on letting you live to stand trial," Bucky says. "He proved that in the park." Sam nods, fully aware that the death of the Judge—or Red, or Jason Weatherby—was inevitable, but pained nonetheless that Weatherby's entire mission stemmed from a desire to get justice for his dead sister.

There are a million charges on Sam's rap sheet that have nothing to do with Lebanon. Sam doesn't know what will happen after the Lebanon proceedings are over. If he's found guilty, he'll go to prison or death row. But if he's exonerated,  who's to stop the prosecution from turning around and charging Sam with the mass shootings, the deaths during the bank hostage situation, the explosion at the police station?

There are some things in Sam's past that he doesn't think he'll ever stop paying for.

"Hey, Metallica, it's- Oh, Sasquatch, good to see your eyes!" Tony cuts himself off when he sees that Sam is awake, and he strides meaningfully into the room. "I was going to say that it's my turn, but I guess that's no longer an issue."

"Your turn?" Sam questions, glancing at Bucky.

"We've been taking shifts, sitting in here with you," Bucky says. "Keeping an eye on you all night. The doctors said the concussion was pretty bad, so we didn't want to risk anything happening while you were asleep."

"Well, I'm fine," Sam says, sitting up—successfully, this time—with a wince. "Just need some Advil, and I'm good to go."

"Well, that's good," Tony says.  "As much as I wish you could take some time to relax and recover, closing statements are today." Sam nods slowly, internally kicking himself for forgetting why December 14 is such an important date. In all the chaos with the Judge—and thanks to the fact that, for his own safety, Sam wasn't allowed to attend court for the past week—Sam missed the most important days of the trial, when Matt introduced the video footage from Lebanon as his last piece of evidence, entirely.

"So, here's that Advil." Tony passes a couple of pills to Sam and Bucky hands him a glass of water. Sam swallows the Advil, hoping that it will make a dent in the pounding headache that he's undoubtedly going to be suffering through for at least a few more days.

"This is what we've been waiting for," Sam says as he climbs gingerly out of bed, swaying unsteadily for a moment but regaining his balance just as Bucky reaches for his arm to steady him. This, like last night's conversation, is something that Sam has to do on his own. "It's judgement day."

It's time to see if the months of efforts by Matt and Tony—and the Defenders, and the Avengers, and everyone in Manhattan Sam is proud to call his friends—paid off.

Or if everything that they've done was for nothing. 

* * *

When the car is pulled up to the courthouse, Sam is unsurprised to see a crowd gathered outside, holding signs and chanting something that Sam can't make out through the closed, mostly soundproofed doors. It's not an unusual sight—there has been a group of angry civilians outside every day since the trial began—but today, the group is significantly larger than what Sam remembers.

Sam figures that the fact that this is the last day of the trial is probably what drew the larger crowd.

"Hands." Steve—Sam's Avenger bodyguard of the day—says, and Sam turns away from the window, holding his hands out in front of his chest and allowing Steve to close a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. It's another part of the standard procedure—one of the very first agreements the Avengers, Matt and Foggy, and the government made when Sam first went to Avengers Tower.

That familiarity, however, is where the similarities to the standard procedure of past court dates end.

Usually, Sam is herded quickly through an angry crowd that shouts insults and threats. But when the door is opened today by one of Tony's security guards—the Avengers refused to let the government supply their own guards until the full reach of the Judge's influence could be determined—the shouts of the crowd finally reach Sam's ears, and he's frozen in shock.

"INNOCENT! INNOCENT! INNOCENT!" The crowd chants together, a stark change from the chants of 'Lebanon' and 'Death Penalty' that Sam is used to hearing. The signs, Sam notes when Steve helps him out of the car and they begin to head to the door, have changed as well. There's a large population of big red circles with lines through them, but they've shifted from covering pictures of Sam's face to clipart and hand-drawn images of handcuffs. Signs that used to read 'LOCK HIM UP' and 'MURDERER' now read 'SET HIM FREE' and 'HERO.' One sign even has a photo of Jason Weatherby pasted on it, black x's made of tape covering his eyes and the words 'Thank You' scrawled beneath the image in big block letters.

"Looks like the tide of public opinion has shifted in your favor," Foggy says once he, Matt, Sam, and Steve have made it inside and the door has closed, abruptly cutting off all noise from the outside—from the protestors who,  for the first time, aren't protesting _against_ Sam but  _for_ him.

"Public opinion is a powerful thing," Steve says, grinning. "We might just win this thing yet."

The interior of the courtroom mirrors the scene outside—for the first time, Sam's side of the room is standing room only, his supporters crowding the seats not already occupied by the cops and Lebanon survivors who have attended every session. When Sam is most surprised to see when he, Matt, and Foggy reach the front of the room is that the first two rows are filled not with strangers but with friends.

The entire Avengers team—even Bucky, who rarely leaves the tower at all, much less attends public events full of cameras—is seated directly behind the defense table. In the row behind them, Jessica Jones and the other Defenders, as well as Claire Temple and Karen Page, are talking amongst themselves, all wearing smiles Sam interprets as cautiously optimistic. Sam expects Steve to sit down in the sizeable empty space to Tony's right on the end of the first row, but instead, he slides into the second row, taking a seat beside Karen. Sam eyes the empty space for a moment longer, then turns his attention to Matt and Foggy, who are quietly discussing their closing arguments.

"Who's sitting there?" Sam asks curiously, nodding to the empty seats, and Matt smiles warmly.

"You'll see." He says, turning back to Foggy. People continue to enter the already crowded room, and Sam scans the faces for anyone familiar, curious as to who the seats could possibly be reserved for.

Sam's answer comes in the form of three women he honestly wasn't sure he would ever see in person again.

"Sorry we're late." Jody Mills says with a grin as she slides into the seat, followed shortly by Claire—who looks excited—and Alex—who looks extremely uncomfortable for reasons Sam assumes have something to do with the line of Avengers sitting in the same row. "Traffic was hell."

"It's New York. I'd be more surprised if it wasn't." Tony says as Matt and Foggy both turn their attention to the newcomers.

"It's nice to see you three again," Matt says politely, and Foggy quickly voices his agreement, offering a hand to Jody that she shakes. Matt offers his hand as well but Jody pulls him into a hug, whispering a quiet thank you into his ear that Sam can barely hear over the conversations going on throughout the courtroom.

"You know each other?" Steve speaks up, apparently surprised—Sam doesn't know who invited Jody and her girls, but he's guessing both Tony and Matt had something to do with it.

"Jody, Claire, and Alex were kidnapped by the Demon last May," Matt explains. "After they were rescued by Darkside and Daredevil, they came to my apartment to celebrate Sam's birthday and met Foggy."

"You know, I can't say I'm surprised." Tony shakes his head, grinning and offering his hand to Jody, who shakes it and returns the grin. "Well, Sheriff Mills, it's nice to finally make your acquaintance. And you, Miss Claire, who I presume sent us the footage that just might exonerate Sam today."

"I try," Claire smirks, running a hand through her hair. "Alex is the one who found the footage. I just cleaned it up a bit and sent it."

"I've been helping with the relief efforts," Alex says, much more subdued than her adoptive sister. "Spending a lot of time in Lebanon with the clean-up crews."

"Sam's saved both of our asses more times than we can count, so it's about time we get the chance to return the favor," Claire says.

"Language." Jody hisses, much to Sam's amusement. Tony leans over the back of the bench to elbow Steve—there's definitely some kind of inside joke there that Sam doesn't quite understand, even though Tony loves to rib Steve about it. Before Steve can complain or reprimand Tony, a booming voice fills the room and Tony turns back around.

"All rise."

Sam stands with the rest of the room, resisting the urge to fidget with his handcuffs as the federal judge overseeing his case enters the room and takes her seat, turning her attention to the table where Matt, Foggy, and Sam are seated.

"Are you ready with final arguments?" The judge asks.

"Yes, Your Honor." The prosecutor says.

"Yes, Your Honor." Matt echoes. The judge nods and Matt stands, grabbing his cane. He walks to the center of the room, the clicking of his cane against the wooden floor of the courtroom the only sound to be heard as everyone, it seems, holds their breath.

"Your Honor, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: I would like to begin with a recent story that I believe is important for you all to know about." Matt begins. "Last night, Sam Winchester met a man named Jason Weatherby in a park six blocks away from Avengers Tower, where he has resided for the past three months of this trial for his own protection. Mr. Winchester was unarmed, unprotected, and entirely vulnerable. He was very nearly killed by Mr. Weatherby not once but twice and suffered a head injury as a result of his actions. But thanks to my client, Manhattan no longer has to fear the man known as the Judge."

Matt smiles at the jury, tapping his cane twice on the ground before picking it up and tucking it under one arm.

"We're here in this courtroom today to determine the guilt of Sam Winchester in the 52 deaths that resulted from the bombing of Lebanon, Kansas 436 days ago," Matt says. "Both sides have presented their cases and their evidence to you, and it's now up to you to determine my client's guilt. There's nothing more I can do but ask this: why is Sam Winchester sitting here right now, accused of this heinous crime? Where is the evidence of his planning of the attack, his placing of the bomb?" Matt nods stiffly, tapping his fingers against his cane. "Had he not been in the town of Lebanon on the day of the bombing, Sam Winchester would not be sitting before us today. He would not be a suspect, would never have even been considered to be a suspect. The argument against my client revolves entirely around the fact that he happened to be in the city of Lebanon on the day of the bombing."

Sam feels several eyes shift away from Matt and to him and looks down at his hands, biting the inside of his cheek and forcing down the swirling emotions and memories that threaten to surface.

"Sam Winchester has made several mistakes in his time." Matt continues. "He has done things that he regrets, as have we all. But he did not detonate a bomb in the town of Lebanon, Kansas 436 days ago. There is no concrete evidence pointing in that direction. That means that there is reasonable doubt and, therefore, you must find him not guilty."

Matt nods once to the jury and again to the judge, then he returns to the table, followed by the insurmountable silence that fills the room. After a minute, the prosecutor stands, clearing his throat and making his way to the center of the room.

"Your Honor, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: Sam Winchester has lived a life filled with mistakes." The prosecutor begins. Sam stops listening to his arguments after that, mulling over that first statement.

It's been 436 days since the Lebanon bombing, according to Matt. That's a little over 62 weeks, 14 months, over a year. As far as chapters of Sam's life go, it's somewhere in the middle length-wise—not too impressive, but a pretty good period. Sam spent four months alone after Dean died, five months with Amelia,  a year and a half without his soul, over three years at Stanford, a century and a half in the Cage. All of those experiences changed him forever, made him into who he is today. And in these past 14 months, Sam has changed again.

He lost a leg, lost his home, lost his brother, lost his freedom. He gained several close friends, superpowers, a new purpose, a new job, and respect. Sam lost some of his memories but gained new ones, lost a part of who he was but created something to fit in that hole. Sam has grown, over the past 436 days.

As he looks back on those other turning points in his life, no matter the amount of time they spanned, Sam sees regret. Pain. Wistfulness. And he sees all of that here, too. Sam's time in Manhattan has been far from perfect.  _Sam_ has been far from perfect. He's made mistakes. He failed to save someone from a werewolf, failed to keep himself in control after Dean's conviction, failed to keep himself out of the very situation he's in now, standing trial for a crime he didn't commit.

But when he looks back at the past 436 days with the echo of the prosecutor's words in his ears, Sam realizes that there are things he's proud of, too. Ways that he succeeded. Ways that he grew. Sam escaped Asmodeus's grasp,  got away from the demon who made his life hell for four months. Sam stood up to the Demon, to the Judge, to the criminals of Manhattan and to its heroes. He reconnected with Jody, Claire, and Alex, and found new friends in Matt, the Defenders, and the Avengers. He became a vigilante, fought crime, saved the city. He created Darkside.

Ultimately, Sam isn't innocent. The prosecutor was right that Sam has lived a life full of mistakes. And that didn't change over the past 436 days. Sam isn't innocent.

But he isn't guilty, either.

Sam doesn't deserve to go to prison for the rest of his life or to die for the bombing of Lebanon. But he doesn't deserve to go entirely unpunished.

He just deserves a second chance.

"Come on, Sam." The room is filled with sound when Sam is pulled roughly from his thoughts by a hand on his arm, guiding him to his feet. Someone is cheering—multiple someones, actually—and someone else is yelling. People are moving everywhere in the room, some hugging, some crying, a few gesturing angrily. As someone guides Sam to the door, he realizes that he's lost track of his friends entirely.

Outside of the courthouse, the camera flashes white out Sam's vision as microphones are shoved in his face and questions are shouted at such rapid pace that they all bleed together into something incomprehensible. Sam ducks his head low and lets whoever is moving him help him into a car, and after the door shuts, it takes a good thirty seconds for Sam's ears to stop ringing. It takes about the same amount of time for Sam's vision to clear enough for him to realize that he's no longer wearing handcuffs.

"What happened?" Sam asks, confused, disoriented, and still nursing a splitting headache that the chaos outside did nothing to help. Tony is sitting across from Sam as the car starts to move, and Matt is to Tony's left, and Bucky is sitting on Sam's left, grinning at him.

Sam isn't wearing handcuffs. He's sitting in Tony's car, not a police cruiser. Bucky and Tony and Matt are with him.

Sam isn't wearing handcuffs.

"Not guilty on all counts," Tony says.

"Not guilty," Matt says.

"You ain't guilty, kid," Bucky says, and when it finally hits Sam, it hits him like a train.

Sam leans back into the leather seat of Tony's car—not a police cruiser—and rubs his face with one hand—a hand that isn't in handcuffs—and shakes his head in complete and utter disbelief.

After all this time, after everything the Avengers and the Defenders and Matt and Foggy did for Sam, he honestly never thought that they would succeed. Thought that they were trying to climb a mountain with just their hands, that the goal they all strove to reach was impossible to touch.

And yet, here they are.

Not guilty on all counts.  _Not guilty_.

For the first time since his arrest, since Claire told him the truth in her apartment, since Lebanon, Sam feels like he can actually breathe.

Sam is free.


	40. Chapter 40

When Sam wakes in the late morning nine days after the end of his trial, he hears Silent Night being played on a piano.

It's a song that Sam doesn't think he's ever heard outside of Christmas radio stations and shopping malls, a song that in Sam's opinion sounds much more beautiful without words, without a message. With just music.

It's unfamiliar, but not unpleasantly so—a welcome change from most of the surprises in Sam's life.

When the song ends, another begins almost immediately, similarly calming but not a melody that Sam recognizes. Sam heads to the elevator, determined to find the source of the music—and maybe if he's lucky some coffee.

What Sam finds when he reaches the communal lounge is Christmas.

The music is coming from a grand piano in the corner of the room, being played, to Sam's surprise, by Steve, who has finished his second song and switched to The First Noel. The rest of the Avengers are gathered around a frankly massive Christmas tree, which has replaced one of the couches in the usual square. As Sam watches hesitantly, Tony exits the kitchen and offers Sam a mug of what appears to be hot chocolate. Sam wraps his hands around the warm cup without even really thinking about it, still staring at the tree.

He hasn't been in the lounge since his trial ended, hasn't even left his room. His headache only grew worse over the next week or so, and Sam even returned to the medical floor at one point to make sure there were no complications. Once his concussion had healed somewhat, and he was finally cleared to return to his floor—which only happened yesterday around noon—Sam decided to sleep through the rest of the day. Apparently, he slept straight through the night as well, and right into December 25th.

"What's going on?" Sam asks, taking a step back toward the elevator as he begins to wake up a little bit more and realizes what exactly he just walked into. This is Christmas. An Avengers' Christmas. And Sam is definitely not an Avenger.

"Come on, Sam, it's Christmas," Tony says, catching Sam's arm before he can back completely out of the room. "You can't just hide in your bedroom for another week. Enjoy the celebration. What do you usually do for Christmas?"

"I, uh, I don't," Sam says, shaking his head. "I don't do Christmas. I've celebrated it maybe... once? In the past fifteen years?" Sam pauses for a moment, searching his memory. "Actually definitely only once."

"And you had fun, right?" Tony urges, and Sam manages to find it in himself to smirk.

"Not really, seeing as Dean and I only celebrated that Christmas because there was a pretty good chance that Dean would be dead before the next one," Sam says, shaking his head. "I don't come from a family that really... celebrates things. Birthdays, holidays, they're all just another day, you know?" Sam pauses. "If I remember correctly, that year that we did celebrate, we were interrupted by pagan gods who tried to eat us. I'm pretty sure they were the inspiration for Mr. and Mrs. Claus."

"Okay, not one for the Santa side of things, got it," Tony says, his smile faltering. "And from what I know about you, I'm not even going to start with religion. But that's not what the holidays are about, Sam, or at least not for us. This is an Avengers Christmas. It's a whole different thing." As he speaks, Tony herds Sam over to the couches.

"For once, I agree with Stark," Steve speaks up, and Sam looks over to see that Steve has left the piano behind and is heading for the couches as well. Tony gestures for Sam to take a seat and Sam complies, sitting down on Bucky's right just as Steve sits down on Bucky's other side. "Christmas here isn't so much about Santa Claus and Christianity. It's about being with your family, even if that family isn't related to you by blood." Bucky makes a face at Steve in response to the cheesy remark, and Steve laughs good-naturedly. Sam turns his attention to the tree, which has several presents of various sizes piled beneath and around it—all of which Clint is scrutinizing closely. When Clint reaches for one of the larger gifts, Natasha sharply backhands him, earning her a scowl from Clint—although he does immediately retract his arm.

"Besides, we already got you a gift. Well, several gifts, actually." Tony says. "And no, you aren't allowed to refuse." Sam frowns, ignoring Tony's second statement entirely.

"You've already given me so much these past few months; I can't accept anything else." Sam immediately protests, and Tony just shakes his head.

"See, Sasquatch, that's the thing about gifts," Tony says. "The giftee doesn't get to decide if they deserve a gift. That's on the gifter. And besides, I can't  _not_ give you anything. I buy people things all the time. It's how I show love."

"He's not lying." Bruce comments, lifting his right arm and showing Sam the rather expensive watch on his wrist.

"You- You've given me a place to stay, a group of friends, a state-of-the-art prosthetic leg," Sam says. "Hell, you've given me my life back. Given me the ability to live without the worry of someone recognizing me and sending me to prison. You've given me my identity back." Sam shakes his head, looking down at his hands for a moment before looking back up at Tony. "You've given me more in the past three months than I've been given over the rest of my life, just about. How am I supposed to accept anything more?"

"A roof over your head, a functional leg, a support system, those are all things that you  _need_ , Sam," Steve says. "You  _needed_ a second chance to live your life as yourself without fearing for your safety. Those things, those gifts, we gave them to you because you should never have wanted for them in the first place. The gifts we're giving you today, we don't think you  _need_ them. We think they're something you'd  _want_."

"And that, my friend, is what Christmas is all about," Clint says with a grin, miming raising a glass in the absence of a real drink. "Giving people things they don't need, just for the sake of giving. To, you know, get that warm fuzzy feeling inside." Natasha swats the back of Clint's head, and Clint laughs, knocking back his imaginary drink and then straightening. "So, now that we've established the true meaning of Christmas, can we get on with the gift exchange? I want to know what my Secret Santa got me."

"Of course, of course," Tony says, finally taking the last empty seat beside Bruce. Sam shifts awkwardly in his place, and Bucky pats him lightly on the shoulder, grinning.

"Come on, kid, loosen up," Bucky says, gesturing to the group as a whole. "I promise no one will bite, other than maybe Barton if you steal his gift."

"Did you say Secret Santa?" Sam asks as DUM-E—who up until now has been standing patiently beside the tree—grabs one of the gifts from the pile and holds it out to Tony.

"Yeah, we've been doing a Secret Santa gift exchange since 2012," Steve explains. "The first time around, it was just the original six Avengers and Pepper, but as new people joined the team, they joined the gift exchange, too. About half of these presents won't even be unwrapped today. They'll just be delivered to whoever they're for."

"Well,  _most_ of them will be delivered." Natasha comments. "Thor will come to pick his up if he ever remembers."

"We think that Christmas isn't a thing on Asgard because Thor tends to forget that there's a present for him, too," Clint says. "This past year, he didn't get his gift until June, and his present for Bruce wasn't delivered until November." Sam nods, recalling when he ran into Bruce the day he met Thor—Bruce was holding a Christmas present that day.

"No, DUM-E, for the last time, look for the ones with names of people who are actually here!" Tony exclaims exasperatedly, sending the robot back with a present for the third time. "That one is for Peter! Do you see him? Because I don't!" Tony scowls at the next gift, shaking his head and sending DUM-E back once again.

"Speaking of Peter, is he planning on stopping by today?" Natasha asks. "We haven't seen him around in a while."

"His aunt didn't want him coming to the tower during the trial, understandably," Tony says. "Too much media attention, someone might connect the wrong dots. He's going to start coming around more often once school is back in session, and after everything is moved to the compound upstate, he'll probably join me up there on the weekends." Tony glances at the next gift DUM-E brings him and grins, throwing up his hands. "Finally!" He exclaims. "Romanoff, this one is for you."

DUM-E holds the wrapped present out to Natasha, who takes it with a smile. She delicately unwraps the present without tearing the wrapping paper and smiles gently when she opens the box within to reveal a pair of ballet slippers. Sam isn't exactly an expert on ballet, but the slippers look expensive to him.

"Thank you, Steve," Natasha says, and Steve blushes, raising an eyebrow.

"How'd you know it was from me?" He asks, and Natasha smirks.

"I'm a spy." She says, and the rest of the Avengers accept that answer, moving forward with the next gift.

Each Avenger is given a present in turn—although other than Natasha, no one else mentions who gave it—until Sam is the only one without anything in his hands. He assumes that the rest of the presents under the tree are for other friends of the Avengers—such as Pepper, who is apparently out of town, and Sam Wilson, who is spending the holiday with his family—but then DUM-E grabs a large stack of boxes and deposits them on the wrapping paper-covered coffee table directly in front of Sam.

"These can't possibly all be for me," Sam says in disbelief, but the grins sent his way by the Avengers quickly refute his statement.

"Open that top one first," Tony says, pointing to a gift that clearly isn't part of the set—while most of Sam's gifts are wrapped in the same tree-covered paper as the majority of the Secret Santa presents, the top present on the stack is wrapped in silver paper. "And if it makes you feel any better, this one isn't from us, and it also isn't really a gift. Call it a return." His curiosity piqued, Sam takes the present and unwraps it. The box has a card taped to the top that Sam carefully opens, and he's surprised to find a short message from Jody inside explaining that the gift is from her, Claire, and Alex.

When Sam opens the box, he's shocked to find Ruby's demon knife nestled inside.

"Okay, not exactly what I was expecting," Tony comments when Sam pulls the knife out, twisting it slowly in his hand.

"What is that? It looks like it has something carved into it." Natasha says, leaning forward to get a better look at the knife.

"It's a demon-killing knife," Sam says. "A demon gave it to me about... ten years ago, now. It's one of the few things out there that you can use to kill a demon." He pauses smiling. "The Demon had one of these, but I don't think it was the same one. I always wondered what happened to this, after the bombing. I guess it stayed in Lebanon."

"What will you do with it?" Steve asks.

"Carry it, probably," Sam admits. "With Asmodeus still out there, I need the protection. This won't kill him, he's too powerful for that, but it will slow him down at the very least." Sam sets the knife down on the table, fully aware that the mood in the room has sobered somewhat.

"Alright, next present." Tony gestures to the stack of boxes—there are four in total, all around the same size except for the top box.

"These are from all of us," Steve says. "Consider it thanks for everything you've done for Manhattan."

One by one, Sam opens the boxes to find the pieces of a brand new Darkside suit. The first box contains a new mask—"It has a voice modifier built in," Tony explains,  "so you don't have to ruin your throat doing that ridiculous Batman voice"—and the second contains a pair of black pants that match Darkside's jacket, but that are easier to move in than denim or leather, according to both Steve and Clint. The third box holds a shirt that bears a striking resemblance to the one Tony wears when he's in his Iron Man suit, and the final box contains a pair of nice black combat boots that Bucky swears are way better than tennis shoes.

"It's all bulletproof, of course," Tony says once Sam is done unboxing and examining everything. "As much as I could make it. Murdock recommended his friend Melvin for help, and I have to say, that bulletproof fabric of his is the real deal."

"I don't... I don't know what to say." Sam says, shaking his head. "This is too much. I just... Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Don't thank us yet," Steve says. "There's one last gift." Sam is about to ask how there could possibly be anything else, but he's interrupted when his phone starts to ring in his pocket.

"We'll leave you two alone," Natasha says when Sam picks up his phone and sees Dean's name on the screen. The Avengers stand almost in unison, leaving their gifts behind and heading toward the kitchen, where they gather at the bar—close enough to offer reassurance but far enough to provide privacy. Sam answers the call with a smile, and Dean's face appears on the screen a few seconds later.

"Hey, Sammy! Merry Christmas!" Dean says cheerily, a wide grin stretching across his face. Dean looks better, Sam notes—his black eye is almost entirely gone, and he's clearly no longer in the hospital.

"I wish you could be here in person," Sam says wistfully, and Dean shrugs.

"There's still time." He says, the smile quickly returning to his face. "My beautiful mug isn't your only gift, though. I come bearing news."

"What kind of news?" Sam asks.

"Well, your fancy lawyers are apparently also  _my_ fancy lawyers now, because they've been arguing with the prison staff all morning," Dean says. "Apparently, I'm going to be spending the next few months in solitary while they start appealing my case."

"Is that a good thing?" Sam asks, and Dean nods, his expression growing serious.

"Well, obviously the appeal is," Dean says. "But honestly, I haven't been making any friends in the yard this past year. Solitary confinement may not be fun, but I'm a lot less likely to get another shiner to go with this one." Dean gestures to the greenish skin beneath his eye. "Your lawyers also told me that they're working on a deal to get you out of any other trials, and they're pretty sure the Department of Justice will agree. No more sitting in a courtroom for you."

"That's... that's amazing." Sam says in disbelief. "I just... I just want all of this to be over."

"Merry Christmas, Sammy," Dean says with a smile. "Maybe next year, we'll be able to celebrate together. In person, not over the phone."

"Maybe so," Sam says. "You'll get that appeal, Dean. You deserve a second trial. You deserve a second chance."

"Well, I guess I'll see you in a year, huh," Dean says. "Until then, you'll have to pick up the phone more often. I get one call a day, I might as well use them."

"Deal," Sam says with a grin.

The worst is over, but that doesn't mean that Sam's life is back to normal. He may have escaped jail time for Lebanon, but there are hundreds of other charges on his rap sheet. And appeals take time, months at the least and often up to decades at the most.

And even once the whole court situation is behind him, Sam won't be able to just go back to his life. Lebanon is gone, destroyed by a bomb. Sam and Dean can't return to the bunker. Sam doesn't even know where the Impala is. And credit card scams are out of the question now that Sam and Dean's faces are recognized by the entire country.

And with Darkside's presence in Manhattan, Sam can't just leave, anyway. Can't abandon what he built here.

Sam's life will never return to the way that it was before.

But as he looks at the faces of his family, both on the phone and gathered around the bar, Sam decides that he doesn't really mind.

His life is different now, but Sam is pretty sure that it's changed for the better.

Sam looks back down at his brother, and the smile that stretches across his face at that moment is the most genuine one he's given anyone in a very long time.

"Merry Christmas, Dean." 

* * *

 

In the long-forgotten basement of a long-abandoned building hidden deep within the heart of Manhattan, a young woman sits on a cold metal chair inside a small room with bloodstained walls. Her body is littered with evidence of years of abuse, but her only recent injuries are a tight grouping of track marks centered directly over her heart. Her clothes are torn and dirty, and her hair is limp and greasy, but her face is pristine, unmarked but for a collection of tiny scars on her left skin, slight pockmarks that tarnish her dark skin.

The door to the room opens behind her, and the woman disappears as a dark, substantial shadow fills the room, swirling menacingly. A man steps inside, and the shadow vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving the woman seated in her chair. She isn't restrained, but she makes no move to attack the man as he circles the room, stopping before the woman and clasping his hands together behind his back as a sinister smile stretches across his face.

"I believe that you're finally ready." The man says, and the woman is quick to return his smile, her dark eyes growing wide in anticipation.

"What's my mission?" She asks in a slight accent, looking up eagerly at the man.

"Bring me Sam Winchester." He says. "And kill anyone who stands in your way."

The woman smiles, disappearing once again into the darkness. The living shadow exits the room in a flurry of motion that is nearly invisible to the eye, a patch of darkness moving along the walls and down long concrete corridors. The shadow woman escapes upward into the building and then out into the world, passing everyone by as they go about their business on the bustling streets of Manhattan. She's undetectable, unnoticed, a shadow traversing the city with no body to cast it.

By the time Sam Winchester realizes that she's there, it will already be too late.

Back in the room with the red-stained walls, the man continues to smile, his yellow eyes swirling as he awaits the return of his most prized subject.

**END OF BOOK TWO**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, one and all, to the end of the second chapter of Darkside's saga. To everyone who has been reading since the beginning, and to everyone who has joined more recently, thank you for your kudos and your comments—even if I don't reply, I promise that I read and appreciate every single one.
> 
> As you can probably tell, Darkside's story is far from over. The third book in the Second Chances series, Out of the Shadows, will be posted starting in three weeks on Saturday, April 6—if you haven't already, be sure to subscribe to the Second Chances series page so you'll be notified as soon as the first chapter is posted.
> 
> Before I start posting Out of the Shadows, I'll be uploading a few chapters of a one-shot book in this series called If A Tree Falls. This book will be a bit different from the main series, as it's a collection of scenes that were important parts of the storyline but didn't make it into the main story because Sam wasn't there to see them—and as such, the scenes are written from the point of view of other characters in the series. The first chapter, for instance, shows what happens just before Chapter 4 of Escaping the Dark Side, when Daredevil and Claire Temple realize that the man whose life they've just saved is Sam Winchester.
> 
> The first chapter of If A Tree Falls is already up, so if you're interested, be sure to check it out! And if you have any suggestions of scenes you'd like to see, let me know—I'll be adding on to If a Tree Falls until the end of this series, both between books and between chapters whenever I have the time.
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and I hope to see you back on April 6 for the first chapter of Out of the Shadows!
> 
> Emily


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